


Anderstair 14-Day Winter Challenge

by ponticle



Series: Coffee Shop Universe [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: 14 Day Challenge, Abortion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Break up sex, Coffee Shop Universe, Discussion of Abortion, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional Sex, F/M, Forgiveness, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, M/M, Morning Sex, Moving In Together, Recovery, Trying to stay together after a terrible thing happened, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-21 08:33:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 20,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9539903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponticle/pseuds/ponticle
Summary: Six months after Anders and Alistair almost broke up, they're trying to make their relationship work. [14 days of sequential chapters. Anders' POV, first person, present tense.] (Timeline note:this takes place six months after the second chapter of the main story:Coffee Shop, which was six months after the first multi-day challenge:12 Days of Anderstair.)I used 14 random topics (from a generator) to structure this story. :)





	1. Wednesday, 2/1, Living Together

**Author's Note:**

> Rated M: implied sex, language

* * *

**Six Months Later**

**Wednesday, February 1st**

 

The next six months don’t pass as smoothly. I give up my apartment right after that first fight and everything seems okay at first, but we can’t sustain it. Every time his phone rings, I am consumed by jealousy and terror. He’s sweet about it for a while. He reassures me every chance he gets. But eventually, he feels attacked and withdraws from me. We keep up the act in public—we don't want our friends to know—but at home we’re having problems.

 

* * *

 

“You just have to give me _time_ , Al,” I growl.

He sighs and rolls away from me. We're sweaty and breathless and I _want_ him more than anything, but I just _can't._

“Al…” I curl in behind his back and pull on his shoulder, “I'm sorry…”

“You don't have to be sorry…” he mumbles. What I can see of his face is miserable looking.

“I just… can't…”

 

Since we moved in together, nothing has been normal. We made arrangements that very afternoon after he told me...after I thought my _life_ was ending. With imminent destruction seemingly averted, we kissed and made love and _breathed_ into each other. It seemed like we were going to emerge from this hazy nightmare unscathed. I was completely moved in by the following week.

 _That's_ when the trouble started. The minute I didn't have an apartment to escape back to, it occurred to me that I was sleeping in a _crime scene_. I disposed of all the bedding immediately. Next, I rearranged the furniture. When that didn't help, I spent a week sleeping at Isabela's. I claimed she was ill and Fen was away on a business trip. Eventually, though, I had to come back—since then, every night has been a varying degree of stange.

Sometimes, we pretend we’re fine. Sometimes we fuck fervently enough that we forget… That’s what we’re trying to do tonight, only I can’t do it. Sometimes, my body just refuses to let me live this lie.

 

“What can I do for you, Andy?” he asks.

I shake my head against the skin of his shoulder. _I have no idea_. “Nothing… I'm going to be fine… I just need some time to sort out how—how to be here with you… _now_ …”

He turns over to face me. When he reaches around my waist and pulls me close, I feel myself recoil.

“I’ll do whatever you need me to…” he says.

“I just… need some _time_ …”

We drift off to sleep without another word. There really isn’t anything to say. I’m already beating myself up for sending mixed signals—whatever that means. And the reality is, we’re getting _worse_ with time—not better.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, I wake up before him and sneak through my morning routine. I’m out on the subway platform before I even really register that I’m a human in the world.

“Hey, Isabela,” I say. She’s, uncharacteristically, right next to me.

“Oh, hey,” she smiles. “What are you up to?”

“Just heading to work, you?”

“Same,” she shivers and rubs her shoulders. “I think I’m going to die of exposure…”

I smile. “Maybe if you’d wear a coat…” It’s one of the coldest, snowiest winters on record.

“Want to meet me at the hanged man later?” she asks.

I nod as we step onto the train. The ride passes uneventfully. She tells me all about a plan she has to market her new hat shop. After the hats I gave her last Christmas she was inspired and started an etsy, which took off and led to a brick and mortar storefront. It’s all very hipstery.

“I’ll see you tonight, Andy!” she calls.

 

* * *

 

 **Anders** : We’re at the Hanged Man—want to meet me?

 **Alistair** : I actually made plans with a few friends in the department…

 **Anders** : okay…

 **Alistair** : I’ll see you later, though?

 **Anders** : sure… I’ll be home in a couple hours.

 

Isabela and I find a quiet little spot at the end of the bar. When we aren’t here with the whole group, this is our favorite place to sit.

“Is he coming?” asks Isabela.

“Not tonight—he's hanging out with some friends from work…” I explain. I'm trying to make it sound like I don’t care. I haven’t expressed my nervousness about the fact that I don’t know who his friends from work are. I also haven’t admitted that I'm terrified every time he’s out of my sight. I'm letting it fester below the surface until I can't stand it anymore—I'm _really_ good at internalizing.

“What friends?” Isabela perks up on her stool at the bar. “Anyone cute?”

“What do you care?” I roll my eyes. “Isn't Fen enough for you?”

“Yeah… but I have _eyes_ …” she laughs. “Any hot lady-doctors?”

I laugh, “You know, I think they’re just called ‘ _doctors_ ’ when they’re women too…”

She giggles devilishly.

“I don't actually know, though—if any of them are hot… I _know_ they’re called doctors,” I laugh.

“What do you mean? You've lost the ability to _see_ anyone but Alistair?” she laughs haughtily.

“No… I haven't met most of them…”

“Really?” she looks incredulous.

Her reaction makes me feel a little nervous. I’m trying to stay cool, but in the aftermath of this Cullen debacle, _everything_ is a possible fight in the making.

“Well… we’re always so busy hanging out with you guys,” I laugh meagerly.

“I don’t know, Andy,” she’s squinting into her drink. “It sounds like it might be time to make a plan…”

“Why?”

“Because he could be leading a double life,” she says dramatically. “What if he has a wife and two kids?”

“Isabela…” I _want_ to laugh because, _clearly_ , she’s joking, but I’m not any more ready to _laugh_ at jokes like that than I am to have sex with Alistair, apparently.

“Okay, maybe not… but he _is_ a hot piece of ass, Andy…” she teases, “I’d stake my claim if I were you…”

 

We laugh and drink and eventually head our separate ways, but I’m thinking about what she said all the way home.

Before I know it, I’m walking up to my apartment building. A bright red sports car is idling in the fire lane. I watch disinterestedly as the passenger door opens and a man’s leg protrudes.

“Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow,” says a voice I know.

I’m still 50 feet away, in a dark spot against the brick of my building, but I whirl and realize it’s Alistair.

He’s laughing. “I know… that’s insane… we’ll talk more soon!” he hesitates—leaning back into the car for a minute—before emerging, “Thanks again…” He turns toward the front door and ducks inside.

I know I shouldn’t be worried—he _told_ me he would be out—but I watch the car pull out of the parking lot and try to get a good look at its driver. It’s some sort of wildly attractive man with a mustache, who I feel like I’ve seen before. I jog to catch Alistair in the lobby.

When I get inside, he’s leaning into our mailbox. “Hey, Sweetie…” he smiles.

“Hi,” I wrap him in a desperate-feeling hug. “How are you?”

_Also, who was that really hot guy who just dropped you off?_

“Good… you?” he asks, flipping through junk mail.

“Fine… Isabela and I missed you…” I mumble, hitting the elevator call button.

“Oh yeah?” he hasn’t looked up at me, but he’s smiling.

The elevator doors open and we step in. He hits 5 immediately. “I need to take a quick shower… I’m wicked gross…” he laughs and makes a sour face at his clothing.

_How did you get so dirty?_

“So what were you doing tonight?” I ask. I’m trying to sound nonchalant, but I doubt that it’s working—we’re both on edge all the time now.

“Just hanging out… we actually started in the faculty lounge… it was a _hell_ of a week…” he wipes his hand across his forehead.

Of course, I have _no idea_ what he means—other than a department Christmas party two months ago, I’ve never seen where he works.

He puts a hand on my shoulder and looks at me skeptically. “Are you okay?”

“Oh…” I must have had my ruminating face on. _Shit._ “I’m fine—just tired… what time is it?”

He glances at his watch, “Almost 11.”

“I might just go to bed…”

“I just changed the sheets… I’ll meet you,” he kisses me just as the doors open.

“Okay…”

He turns on some soft music. It’s jazz—not terribly experimental, but on the line of what I can tolerate. He _loves_ this kind of stuff, but it’s making me have a flashback to that _other_ day.

“See you in a minute,” he pulls his shirt off over his head and wanders toward the bathroom.

I’m horrendously tired and I have clients starting at 7am tomorrow morning, so I undress quickly and curl into the blankets.

What feels like a second later, Alistair is wrapping his arms around me and resting his head on my chest.

“I must have fallen asleep,” I mumble.

He nods—his beard is scratchy. “You looked so peaceful.”

“So you decided to wake me up?” I laugh.

He looks up at me; the point of his chin is sharp against my sternum. “Well, I _had_ to—you’re so sexy.”

I roll toward him and scoot down so we’re nose to nose. “So who was that guy who dropped you off earlier?” I ask. My voice sounds a little strange—like I’m swallowing a frog.

His brow furrows. “What guy?”

“That _guy_ —with the red camaro…” I reiterate.

“Oh… that’s my friend, Dorian… you met him at the Christmas party, don’t you remember? He’s a radiologist...” he says dismissively. He’s already refocused his attention on the skin of my hip. His fingers are circling dangerously close to my dick, which—predictably—is half-hard.

“Maybe I could meet him again…” I suggest.

“Yeah, if you want,” he sounds a bit annoyed now, but grabs my dick and tugs it inattentively.

“Well, I _would_ like to meet your friends, you know…” I back up slightly, slipping out of his grasp.

“What’s the problem?” he props his head up on his arm and looks at me.

“Nothing…” I lie.

He raises an eyebrow. “Really? Because normally you’d be halfway down my throat by now…” he laughs, but it’s humorless. There doesn’t seem to be a _‘normally’_ for us anymore.

“Well,” I decide it’s safe to crawl back toward him. “I’ve just been thinking that we spend tons of time with my friends, and maybe you’d like it if we spent more time with _yours_.”

“Okay…” he nods and kisses me half-heartedly when I lean in. His lips barely open. I fill in a projection of his thoughts in the silence that follows: ‘ _keeping tabs on me, Andy_?’ or ‘ _Are you planning to put a tracking bracelet on me too_?’

“I need to get some sleep, actually…” he says, turning away from me. “We can talk about this more when I’m awake.” He smiles and reaches around to pull me in close behind him, but he’s different. I can feel it.

* * *

 


	2. Thursday, 2/2: An Injured Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders is summoned to the hospital when Isabela gets herself into some trouble. It gives him a chance to see Alistair in action and also an opportunity to evaluate his life decisions so far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated T: Anders feels inadequate (As the prompt title suggests), some swearing? there usually is.

* * *

 

Thursday, February 2nd

* * *

 

“I’m leaving,” I yell up the stairs.

Alistair stalks down them one by one. He blinks at me through sleepy eyes.

“Will you please remember to get some almond milk on your way home?” I ask.

He nods and heads for the coffee machine.

“Thanks…” I mumble. “See you tonight.”

I close the door behind me without saying anything else. I want call out that I love him. It’s true, actually, but I feel like we’ve been robbed of that particular right because he first said it to me under duress. It’s tainted.

* * *

 

The day passes easily. My clients are all on time and chipper. February in a gym is a wonderful time—everyone is still motivated by new year’s resolutions.

At about 4pm, I’m finishing with my last client and I receive a text. It’s from Isabela, but she hasn’t used the group text—it’s only to _me_.

 **Isabela** : I’m at the hospital…

 **Anders** : what???

 **Isabela** : I can see him right now…

 **Anders** : who?

 **Isabela** : Alistair… dummy…

 **Anders** : Back up… what are you even talking about?

 **Isabela** : I dislocated my shoulder this morning… I’m in the ortho wing of the university’s hospital…

 **Isabela** : Ooh, he’s coming around the corner… Is he going to come in here and look at this shoulder or what?

 **Anders** : I have no idea… I haven’t seen him at work.  Hey… how did you dislocate your shoulder?

 **Isabela** : the shoulder...you _really_ don’t want to know…

 **Anders** : oh my god…

I laugh, despite myself.

 **Isabela** : Well, this is your chance to see him in action… I need a ride home.

 **Anders** : I’ll be there in about 20 minutes.

* * *

 

Luckily, I’d driven to work today instead of taking the train. I arrive at the hospital right on time and struggle to find a parking space. After a tense series of microaggressions against other drivers, I find one relatively near the back of the lot. I step out of the car and realize it’s sleeting on me _and_ I don’t have an umbrella. _Great_.

“That’s exactly what _I_ said,” laughs someone.

I turn to look back over my shoulder and realize it’s that horrifyingly good looking guy who dropped off Alistair last night. For a mad second, I think about hiding between the rows of cars to watch him. But I’m _not_ an insane person, so I just keep walking toward the door—albeit slowly.

“Right… but what about the rest of the department?” cackles someone else. It’s a woman with beautiful blonde hair. I can’t see well in the failing light, but I think she’s another person I met at the Christmas party—one of Alistair’s current crop of interns.

“I don’t know… but we’ll see what Al has to say about it,” says Dorian.

It feels weird to hear my boyfriend’s name in someone else’s mouth like that—as if I’m overhearing a _secret_ about his life.

I follow them into the brightly lit reception area of the orthopedics department. Dorian has a long white coat on—like the one Alistair sometimes comes home in, but the woman is dressed haphazardly: wrinkly scrubs and thin wire glasses askew. She looks tired, like _I_ did once…

They jovially pass through the metal security doors, leaving me alone with the receptionist.

“Hi, I’m looking for a patient…” I mumble.

After a variety of arguments about patient privacy and a phone call to Isabela herself, I am allowed to pass through the double doors. I search the hallway nervously. Everything smells antiseptic, but much _less_ than other hospitals I’ve been in. After all, no one is dying of cancer or having a baby or experiencing kidney failure in _this_ ward. Mostly, they’re preparing to learn to walk on a newly repaired meniscus or lift a heavy box with improved spinal stability. It’s a _happy_ sort of hospital.

Outside the door to Isabela’s room, I hear her.

“Thanks, _Doc_ …” she’s saying.

“You’re very welcome,” says Alistair. “Now… who can explain the mechanism of this particular dislocation?”

I peek into the doorway. A variety of students are crowded around him. They don’t wear white coats—they just wear light blue scrubs and horrified expressions. Life is stressful for medical students—it’s one of the things I learned before I unceremoniously _dropped out_ during my first year.

“Hey Andy!” Isabela calls, effectively interrupting the sputtering of one of the interns. “Come in!”

Alistair blushes when he sees me.

“Hi…” I cough. I’m not sure how to _be_. In order to get to Isabela’s side, I need to walk _right past_ Alistair.

“Hi,” he parrots. He’s looking at me expectantly, but I’m not sure what it _means_.

I decide to avoid touching him. I step so far to the left to circumvent him that I bang the opposing wall with my shoulder. _Smooth._

“Everyone…” he sighs, “Let’s talk about what happens when an unknown person enters a patient’s room…”

One of the more nervous-looking interns raises his hand, “We ask the patient to identify the person and if it’s okay to talk about their medical information with the person in the room.”

“Yes, exactly,” says Alistair.

“Dr. Theirin?” asks another intern.

He turns his head.

“What if the person is actually a _threat_?” she looks at me apologetically. “How would the patient tell us?”

Alistair looks at me for a second—something like a smile flickers behind his eyes. “I happen to know this person _isn’t_ a threat… but it’s a valid question. You can always tell the person to leave the room while you ‘run tests’ and ask the patient.”

The interns nod, but they are now looking at me skeptically.

Isabela pipes up, “Thanks for coming to get me, Andy…”

I smile.

“This guy is my friend—you can talk about my medical information in front of him… just don’t talk about his _boyfriend_ ,” she laughs.

The interns look even more bewildered than before—clearly, they have no idea what’s going on beyond their textbooks.

Alistair laughs nervously, “All right… I think we’re done here… let’s head down the hall.” He motions for the interns to file out, but lingers. “Hi,” he whispers to me.

“Hi… I’m sorry…” I sputter.

“It’s not a problem… just take Isabela home and make sure she goes right to bed—she’s on some serious painkillers…” he laughs.

There are about a million things I want to ask him. Like, _for one_ , how is this whole thing supposed to go? Am I supposed to pretend not to know him here? Even more embarrassingly, am I supposed to know nothing about the turmoil his interns are in? I haven’t told Alistair _anything_ about my failed attempt at medical school… I’ve skirted the issue for months now; I’m _dreading_ the eventuality of it coming up.  Ironically, I’ve been perversely thankful for all the fights we’ve had—they’ve prevented us from getting to _know_ each other more intimately. Hawke brought it up once accidentally—I was horrified—if looks could _kill_...

“I’ll see you tonight, okay?” asks Alistair. He looks both ways and then leans in to peck my cheek. It’s more than I was expecting, actually.

“Okay… see you…” I mumble. He disappears around the corner.

Isabela laughs, “He’s very good at his job…”

I raise an eyebrow at her.

“I have been here for _hours_ —I’ve seen him lead those scared little mini-doctors all over the hospital twice.” She hops down off the examination table and almost loses her balance. I grab her around the waist.

“Whoa… hold on… let’s do this _slowly_ ,” I suggest.

“Okay, Andy… you win— _this_ time…” she slurs. This is worse than after she’s had six drinks.

“I’m going to call Fenris and make sure he’s ready for you… you shouldn’t be alone tonight.”

“No, don’t,” she argues. “I don’t want him to see me like this… take me to your house.”

We stare at each other grouchily until I give up. “Okay, Isabela… let’s get you home…”

* * *

 


	3. Friday, 2/3: Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders tries to deal with his relationship while making sure Isabela recovers. Alistair wants things to go back to normal, but he's thwarted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated E: like two seconds of sexual activity... and a lot of Anders' thoughts.

* * *

Friday, February 3rd

 

In the morning, Isabela growls at me. She’s sleeping in our guest room.

“Are you trying to _kill_ me?” she groans.

“No… I’m trying to make sure you _eat_ something…” I pull the blankets off her and drag her—not by her injured arm, don’t worry—up to standing.

“Did you tell Fenris that I’m a disaster?” she asks.

It’s funny—this is probably the first time _in her life_ that I’ve seen her falter. She’s a little nervous—I can tell.

“Of course not… I did tell Alistair, though. I want him to check on you one more time before he leaves for work.”

She catches a glimpse of her reflection and sighs. “Well… don’t call Fen until I’ve managed to sort myself out.”

“You look _beautiful_ to me,” I kiss the side of her head and shove a bowl of oatmeal at her.

“You’re just saying that because we’re such good friends you’ve lost perspective…” she groans. “If Alistair came home looking like me, you wouldn’t like him anymore.”

I laugh. It’s such a ridiculous thing to say, I can’t think of a retort. It makes me think, though… Alistair _is_ an insanely good-looking person. His face is incredibly symmetrical; he has perfectly developed musculature; he looks like a store mannequin. _I’m_ quite good looking too, actually. People routinely hit on me in public places and I sometimes get free shit. But compared to him—I feel like the poor country cousin.

“Andy?” Isabela raises an eyebrow. “Where did you just go?”

I laugh. “Nowhere… I’m going to tell Alistair you’re ready for your checkup.”

It’s sort of a lame excuse. I don’t know why I can’t just crawl back into bed with him and say, ‘ _Hey, come downstairs. Your boyfriend lives here… me… I want to spend time with you.._.’”

“Hi,” he says. He’s already out of bed and getting dressed when I get up into the loft.

“Hey, do you want to come downstairs and peek at Isabela one more time before you leave?” I ask.

“I don’t have time actually… I’m late… but have her follow up with her regular doctor,” he suggests. “She’ll be fine.”

I grimace.

“Do you need something else?” he asks.

“No…” but I change my mind. “Actually, _yes_ … I missed you last night…”

I pull him by the collar into the far corner of the room. Before I know what’s happening, my back is shoved up against the wall and he’s kissing me.

“I wish we had more time, but this will have to do,” he bites his lip and suddenly kneels in front of me, untying the drawstring of my pants as he goes.

It’s in times like these that I’m so pleased that my work attire all has elastic waist bands and ties. I guess it’s not that different from _his_ work attire, actually—scrubs are like that too.

“Oh god,” I sigh. We haven’t had sex successfully in a few weeks, but it feels like _forever_. “I missed you.”

He wraps a hand around my cock and looks up at me dangerously. “I missed you too.” When he sucks me into his mouth, I’m fairly convinced that I’m going to bust right then, but it’s a false alarm—I breathe through it.

“Alistair… I want to fuck you so bad right now…” I whimper.

“I know, Sweetie…” he says between licks. “But there isn’t time… let me at least get you off…”

He kneels a little taller and opens his jaw wide. The whole scenario is obscenely sexy—I’m looking out over the city, from the 5th floor, through 13-foot factory windows, receiving a fantastic blow job as the start to my day.

“Life cannot get better this this,” I breathe, tangling my fingers in his hair.

He laughs, which vibrates through me in a pleasant way.

“God, Al… you are _so_ good at this… have you been _practicing_?” I joke. Except the second I’ve said it, I start to freak myself out thinking about his _‘friends’_ from work and the pervasive inadequacy I feel when I compare myself to a bunch of people who successfully _completed_ medical school…

“Yeah… I ask my colleagues for pointers…” he teases.

We look at each other for a second.

“Is something _wrong_?” he asks. He’s just gently tugging me—his lips are still glistening and his breath feels cold against the spit he’s deposited.

“No, of course not,” I lie. I kneel down in front of him so we’re eye to eye. “I just think maybe we should save it—for when there’s less of a time crunch and when we don’t have an injured house guest downstairs?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Whatever you say, Andy…”

I kiss him deeply. I can feel that I’m shoving my tongue too far into his mouth.

He stands when we’ve separated, “I’ll see you tonight, okay?”

I nod.

“Oh… actually…” he runs a hand through his hair. “I told my friends that I’d go to dinner with them when we’re done tonight.”

“Oh…” I straighten my clothes and adjust myself. It’s sort of painful, but I’m softening in accordance with the tone of the conversation anyway. “Well…” I clear my throat, trying to summon bravery, “Maybe I could go with you… meet your friends?”

“Um… maybe not _tonight_.” He wraps his arms around my waist and kisses my cheek, “It’s just… we’re going to be discussing the interns and residents who are moving up this term… and a bunch of stuff from work… our cases and whatnot… it would be kind of _boring_ for you.”

“That wouldn’t be boring,” I argue. _I know all about that stuff, actually._

“Okay… well, it’s already kind of a set thing...”

A snarling sound escapes from somewhere deep in my throat.

“Andy… you don’t need to worry about my work friends… they _know_ about you...”

“That hardly seems to make a difference…” It’s a terrible thing to say, but Cullen _fucking_ knew about me too…

He shrugs. “Just let it _go_ , Andy… I’m coming home _to you_.”

 

* * *

 

Back downstairs, Isabela has managed to put herself back together in usual fashion. She’s sexy without trying very hard.

“Okay, I’m ready for you to call Fenris now…” she announces.

“I’m just going to text him a picture of you…” I laugh.

 **Anders** : [picture of Isabela making a kissy-face]

 **Anders** : Fen… I have someone in my apartment who would like to see you… can you come by?

 **Fenris** : Sure… give me 20 minutes?

“He’s coming right over…” I smile. “I’ve got to head to work—just lock the bottom lock when you leave.”

She smiles and continues preening in the mirror.

“Also… _don’t_ have sex here…” I warn. “Go _home_ first.”

At the threshold, Alistair pulls me aside and whispers, “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to sound insensitive…”

I huff.

“I just have a lot going on…” he wipes a hand across his forehead. “Let’s talk about this tonight, though, okay?”

I acquiesce, but only because he’s beautiful and I can’t stand the sad look on his face. “Fine… I’ll see you tonight… _Doctor_ …”

He smirks and kisses me before he leaves. For the second that our eyes are closed, I almost forget how tenuous everything is. He feels like home.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like these first three are the warm-up chapters. Chapters 4-10 are the meat. Chapters 11-14 segue into the next chapter of the main story.
> 
> Come find me on twitter and tumblr @ponticle. :)


	4. Saturday, 2/4: Meeting Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders wakes up grouchy and Alistair lets something slip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated T: emotional stuff.

* * *

 

February 4th

 

Today is Saturday. For a personal trainer, that doesn’t mean much. If anything, it’s busier than my weekdays. For Alistair, it doesn’t mean much either. He has rotating shifts, so I can never keep up with his schedule.      

“Good morning, Andy,” grumbles Alistair through a mass of pillows between our heads.

“Hey,” I dig through the bedding to get to his face.

He kisses me gently, “I’m sorry about last night…”

“It’s okay,” I lie. I’m _actually_ fuming. He didn’t get home until well after I was asleep. I called him about 10 times. “What were you doing?”

“My phone died and I just crashed on the couch in my office until about 3am…” he explains. It’s _half_ an answer, anyway.

“Why didn’t you just call me from your office line?” I ask.

“Well…” he hedges, “it was late… I didn’t want to wake you.”

It’s a stupid thing to say—he normally has no qualms about waking me up for a _variety_ of activities.

“Well, in the future… even if you’re going to be insanely late… I’d prefer a phone call…” I mumble.

He fixes me with a rather sweet smile. He’s melting down my icy exterior already. “I will.”

When he leans in, I kiss him back, despite myself. His mouth feels so good.

Eventually, I find myself flat on my back underneath him. “So… did you have a good time with your friends last night?” I ask. I’m hoping he’ll tell me what they did.

He laughs, “well… actually… we never made it to dinner.”

_What now?_

“We all just ended up getting drunk in Cullen’s office on the academic side. Dorian was hilarious…” he laughs.

“In _whose_ office?” I gasp.

He realizes his mistake as I try to get out from under him. “Andy… he _works_ at the university. I told you that!”

“You most certainly did _not_ ,” I argue.

He wrestles me to the point where I give up—limp in a cage of his arms. “Yes, I _did_. I told you he was moving here imminently—that he was coming for work ‘ _next term_ ’… well _this_ is next term… He just started two weeks ago; I thought you understood…”

I just stare at him. I’m not sure what to say—my mind is rapidly filling in all the holes in this story with things I wish I didn’t think of.

He notices that I’m withdrawing and grabs the side of my face. “Don’t do that: _think_ we all had an orgy…” he scoffs. “Obviously… we did _not_ … we just laughed about our interns and Dorian harassed Cullen for not treating any _actual_ patients and we joked about med school… it was all very innocent.”

I’m grinding my teeth without meaning to.

“Andy?” he leans in toward my face. “What’s the problem?”

“Nothing… I just… didn’t know that was happening… but I get it. I understand…” I’m unraveling—trying to comprehend all the implications of this situation. “What the hell does he _do_?”

“He’s a psychiatrist… he works on the academic side, though, not in the hospital proper,” he explains. He’s rolling his eyes, actually, which makes me want to slap him.

We stare at each other—breathing the same air and trying to decide who will break first. Uncharacteristically, it’s him.

“I know it must be really hard for you that we work together, but I’m not interested in him anymore…” he explains. “I told Cullen that he and I can be friends at work, but that’s it… He knows _we_ live together—that we’re _serious_.”

He’s trying to help, but it doesn’t seem to be working. All I can think about is that we’ve been together less than a year and Cullen has known him for a _decade_. It just doesn’t seem like a fair fight. It feels like I’m going to _lose_.

His face softens, “I’m sorry you’re feeling vulnerable, though… I _heard_ what you said, you know… you want to meet my friends…”

I nod hesitantly.

“I _heard_ you and I’m going to plan something… I promise,” he kisses me.

His tone is so earnest. I _want_ to believe him.

“In fact, what about tonight?” he asks.

“Who would be there?”

“I’m not sure—I’ll ask Dorian and he’ll probably put something together at his place…” He pauses to gauge my reaction. “Please, sweetheart… let me show you this _isn’t_ what you think it is…”

He’s kissing my neck and clavicle as I stare up at the ceiling—it feels like an out of body experience.

“Fine…”

 

* * *

 

That night, I'm tentatively happy we agreed to do this. We arrive at Dorian’s house around 8 o’clock. I’m carrying two bottles of wine, which makes knocking on the door a funny challenge. Alistair has a hand on my shoulder encouragingly.

Dorian laughs and smiles as he opens the door, ushering us in. “Hello,” he says to me. “It’s so nice to finally get some face time with Alistair’s better half.”

We laugh and I hand over the wine like it’s a hostage exchange. No matter how nice he’s being, I can’t relax because I’m _sure_ that Cullen is lurking somewhere here. Before I can go look for him, two women emerge from the dining room.

“Anders,” Dorian puts a hand on my back to redirect my gaze, “This is Cassandra and Vivienne,” he points each of them in turn. They couldn’t be more opposite. Vivienne is tall and stately, Cassandra athletic and jovial. They’re both smiling, though.

“Hi, I’m Anders,” I shake their hands.

Alistair seems to know them too—he hugs Cassandra and pats Vivienne on the shoulder in a gesture of camaraderie.

As we settle into dinner, I realize that Cullen isn’t there. This is a mixed blessing: it’s _good_ because I don’t have to spent the whole night imagining ways to murder him, but it’s _bad_ because I won’t have a chance to assess any of his potential weaknesses.

Cassandra is a nurse and Vivienne is some kind of hospital administrator. They're both really nice and make me feel better about my bachelors degree.

“So, Anders,” smiles Dorian, “what do you do?”

“I'm an athletic trainer…” I answer.

Alistair puts an arm around my shoulder and adds, “he's really fantastic—totally kicks my ass whenever we work out.”

“That's saying something,” laughs Dorian. “Alistair takes that sort of thing very seriously.”

Everyone laughs politely. Before it has died down, though, Dorian gets a call. He pushes away from the table and covers his mouth. His expression is grave.

“Who was that?” Alistair asks Vivienne. She's been sitting next to Dorian, so ostensibly, I guess she could have seen the call come in.

“I think it was Dr. Rutherford,” she answers.

I don’t know what that means—who that _is_ —but Alistair obviously does; his face looks pale.

I shrug at him.

“That’s Cullen.”

When Dorian comes back to the table, we all look at him expectantly.

“Oh, you know Cullen,” Dorian rolls his eyes at Alistair, “he’s _always_ in some predicament.”

The women look as confused as I feel. They must not know him very well.

“Is that the new psychiatrist you guys are always hanging around?” asks Cassandra.

I’m gritting my teeth at the word _‘always’_ but I manage to stay quiet.

“Yeah,” laughs Dorian, pouring himself another glass of wine, “We all went to med school together—he’s always getting himself into stupid situations...with co-eds, mostly.”

Alistair snorts. Apparently, it’s an inside joke.

“Don’t laugh, Al… you aren’t exactly a saint either,” jokes Dorian.

Cassandra and Vivienne seem to pick up on the awkwardness that follows.

Dorian amends his statement, “...I _should_ say… until you met this gorgeous man over here,” he raises his glass to me and everyone laughs.

We drink and I feel a little better.

“So does Cullen need something?” asks Alistair.

“Not right now… but he might drop by here in a little while…” answers Dorian.

 

I spend the next hour trying to seem relaxed and engaged in the conversation while obsessively glancing out the windows for signs of headlights. Every time a car parks on the street outside, I start to shake. It’s strange—it’s been several months since this whole thing happened, but I don’t seem to be _progressing_ ; I’m no more ‘ _over it_ ’ now than I was two weeks or two months afterward.

Eventually, Alistair announces that he’s exhausted and needs to get home. I’m incredibly relieved to get back in the car with him and kick my shoes off in our apartment. I’m curling into his side and falling asleep before I even have a chance to evaluate how I’m feeling. It’s a relief—to be too tired to _feel_.

* * *

 


	5. Sunday, 2/5: Morning Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the title implies... there's some sex... in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated E: we've made it to the smut finally. You're welcome. ;)

* * *

**February 5th**

 

While Saturday may be nothing special in my life, Sunday is sacred. I never do _anything_ that isn’t self-care on Sunday. I do my own workout programs, I go for runs, I get my hair cut, I play video games, I read. Since my cohabitation with Alistair, these Sundays have been periodically interrupted. Sometimes, I don’t mind, but today I do.

“Andy?” Alistair is leaning over me, shaking me awake.

“Hmmm?” I peek at him from under one eyelid.

“It’s an emergency,” he says.

That gives me a start. I sit up and blink a few times, trying to understand what he’s saying.

“I have to make love to you,” he smirks.

I growl and flop back down onto the bed, pulling a pillow over my head. “Andraste’s tits, Al… are you trying to fuck me or kill me?”

He laughs and pulls me until I’m draped across his chest like a lumpy sack of flour. My leg sprawls across his thighs and leaves my dick trapped against the skin of his hip. I have half a hard-on from a dream I was having. It feels nice.

“So…” Alistair runs his hand up and down my side and grinds his hips toward me. “What do you want today?”

I look up at him sleepily. “What do you mean?”

“Want a blow job?” he asks, smirking. “Want to fuck me? How about some good old fashioned mutual masturbation?”

I laugh. “Dealer’s choice?”

He nods. “Okay… lie down.” He pushes me flat on my back and leans over me until his lips are brushing the crown of my cock.

“You’re so hard, Andy…” he muses.

I nod and groan, pushing my hips up toward him. If I don’t let myself think about it too much, we might _actually_ manage to have sex this morning. Just like a normal, non-ruined couple. He starts to bob, licking circles on every upswing.

“Oh god, Al…” I groan. “That’s perfect.”

He laughs and wraps a hand around to my ass, which he palms and massages in time with his sucking. It feels so good, I can barely stand it. It’s been so long since we just _fucked_ without an agenda.

“Can I please have you?” I ask, picking up my head to look at him.

He nods, grabbing the lube from our bedside drawer. He hands it to me and lies down next to me. I know it’s going to take a little bit to get him ready—we haven’t had sex in weeks.

I coat my first two fingers and probe them toward him. He nods desperately and grinds up to rush me inside.

“Hey… let me work, Al…” I joke.

He laughs and settles his hips back onto the bed.

I work him open gently at first, spreading my fingers apart and smoothly running them in and out of him until it’s easy. His words are starting to fail him—he’s just a babbling sequence of unrelated syllables.

“Please… fuck… want you…” he struggles. “Please…”

I finally nod and tap the side of his hip to get him to flip over. When he’s flat on his stomach, dick grinding into the mattress, I settle myself against him and push.

He gasps. I can see him biting his lip in a mirror to our left.

“Good?” I ask.

He nods at my reflection.

I push myself deeper inside and try not to rush. The drag of my cock inside him feels incredible and I want to go faster, deeper, harder, but I know it will be more fun for both of us if I can keep myself in check. On the third full, slow thrust, I feel him clench his glutes, which is usually a sign that he’s ready for more.

I lean over him to whisper in his ear. “I want you so fucking bad—can I?”

“Fuck yes…” he gasps. He tries to kiss me, to bite a piece of skin, but he can’t reach me fast enough. I’m already looming over him, readying myself for what’s to come. I am going to destroy him, in the best way possible.

“Oh god,” he pants when I start to move. He braces himself against the bed so that there’s more resistance for me to thrust into. I’ve never wanted anyone so much in my life. He’s this broad, lean, muscular, gorgeous person and he’s _completely_ at my mercy. It’s simultaneously the most and least powerful I’ve ever felt: most because I’m _wrecking_ him, but least because if he ever decides to leave me, I don’t know what I’ll do. I’m not sure where to _go_ from him—he’s the pinnacle of my life so far.

While I’m assessing the progression of my life, I realize I’m getting close. A telltale tightening is squeezing and rolling deep in my guts.

“Love?” I gasp, “I’m going to come…”

“Do it,” he goads. He likes it when I come inside him. He told me that it’s his favorite thing after we got tested and stopped using condoms. I really like it too… but it feels awfully _intimate_. Since the incident six months ago, it’s harder for me to do it. He’s empathetic, but I know he feels rejected when I won’t.

This morning, though, I’m fueled by the fact that we haven’t done it in ages. My dick is ready to explode in _any_ available orifice. A second later, I’m seeing colors and swearing incoherently as I spasm into him.

And then everything is still.

I roll off of him and flop onto my side. He mirrors my posture. I’m acutely aware of the fact that his cock is still hard and probably aching. I want to reach out and touch him, but I’m so tired that nothing works—brain and muscle alike.

He seems to know what I’m going through. He smiles apologetically and grabs himself in the space between us. We’re close enough together that he brushes me with the tip every fourth or fifth stroke. He’s slightly wet—it feels nice against my skin. In a minute—or 10, I can’t tell—he’s coming all over his hand and the sheets. We both close our eyes and breathe.

“I love you,” he whispers.

We don’t say that very often. I want to tell him all the time, but I don’t. Now that I’ve heard it—and he sounds so genuine—it feels horrible to say it back, but I do it anyway. I don’t want to fight.

“I love you too…” I mumble, kissing him gently.

He smiles. He’s close enough to my face that I can’t really keep him in focus. “I love you… _so_ much…” he repeats.

I kiss him to stop him from saying it again. I don’t want to cry all over him. I make it a point not to cry in front of him _at all_ now. Normally, I cry at movies or live performances or especially sad literature, but since ‘the event’ I save it for when I’m alone. I don’t want him to see me crying and remember what I looked like when he cheated on me.

Mostly, it’s because I’m empathetic to _his_ situation too. I don’t want him to be reminded of the fact that I’m low-grade angry at him all the time. I want him to feel like we’re okay—like we’re heading toward recovery. Unfortunately, I’m not sure if that’s _true_.

“Hey, do you want to go camping with me?” he asks suddenly. It’s enough of a non sequitur that it breaks my reverie.

“What?”

He laughs and wraps a hand around the back of my neck. “Dorian and I are taking a group of students up into the mountains next week—we’re doing a team building thing… you know: survival as a group in the dead of winter.”

“Really?” I laugh, “is that a _thing_ in med school?”

“Not really… but I like this group—they’re great kids…” he says. He’s rubbing tiny circles over the skin of my nape. “Some of them _aren’t_ kids, actually—there’s a guy who’s older than I am… but you know what I mean.”

I do know what he means, actually. Lots of people go to medical school when they’re older—it’s sort of common. I’ve considered it myself, but I’m not ready to talk about that.

“When are you leaving?” I ask.

“Wednesday,” he smiles, “does that mean you’ll go?”

“Why would you want me there?” I ask. I’m perpetually skeptical of his intentions, it seems.

“Because a few people are bringing their spouses… and you're my boyfriend and I _love_ you…” he sputters.

“Okay, I guess I'll go.”

* * *

 


	6. Monday 2/6: A Shocking Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair and Anders get some gear for their upcoming trip, but are interrupted on the way home when Hawke needs help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated M: serious subjects

* * *

Monday, February 6th

 

“Alistair…” I laugh, “There’s no way we can need all this stuff…”

He smiles boyishly. We’ve managed to amass a cart-full of camping equipment.

“This is going to cost more than our rent,” I smirk.

He looks at the shopping cart skeptically. “I’m just not sure what we can eliminate…” He pulls out the sleeping bag we picked—it’s double-wide. “Definitely not this… I think we might need this just _in general_.”

“Why on earth would we need that in regular life?” I ask.

He shrugs, “In case I want to make sure you are forced to cuddle with me all night.”

I laugh again. “Okay, the sleeping bag can stay, but this generator can go… it isn’t much of a survival exercise if we can make our own electricity.”

“I guess you’re right.” He puts the generator off to the side.

“And what about this electric blanket?” I ask.

“What if we get too cold?” he pouts.

“Well… we got rid of the generator… so we won’t be able to turn it on, regardless of how cold we are…”

He blushes, “I guess that’s true.”

Eventually, we get our cart down to a manageable level of fullness and check out. It’s still a big hit to my paycheck, but I insist on paying. He pays for lots of other things and I don’t like to feel indebted.

In the car, he looks over at me and smiles. “I’m really glad you’re coming with us.”

“Thanks, Love.”

At the same time, I receive a text from Hawke.

 **Hawke** : Hanged Man. Now.

“Al…” I turn the phone toward him before he backs out, “Hanged man?”

He nods and drives us straight there.

“Do you think everything’s okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, probably… Hawke routinely acts like things are catastrophic when they’re not,” I laugh.

Before his infidelity, Alistair used to be pretty jealous of Hawke. Now, he doesn’t speak of him _at all_. I think he’s _still_ jealous, but he knows he isn’t in a position to say anything. I’m not sure if I like that better or worse. Although it was a bit out of hand two Christmases ago, I like a little bit of jealousy—it helped convince me that Alistair really _liked_ me.

           

* * *

 

When we pull up to the Hanged Man, Hawke is pacing outside the door.

“Andy,” he grabs me and hugs me around the neck. It’s a bit _much_ , even for him. “Thank god you’re here.”

“What’s going on?” I ask, wide eyed.

“It’s Bethy…”

“Is she all right?” asks Alistair.

“She’s pregnant.” Hawke looks pale.

“Oh my god…” I gape.

“Mom has threatened to disinherit her if she doesn’t marry that stupid boyfriend of hers…” sputters Hawke.

“Sebastian?” I croak. “He’s such an _asshole_.”

“I know…”

I can see Alistair in my periphery. He looks as horrified as I feel.

“What can I do?” I ask.

“Nothing… I just needed you…” Hawke looks at me like I'm the only person who can pull him back from the brink. I try to look at Alistair in my periphery—to reassure him in some way—but I can't without being super obvious.

“Guys…” calls Merrill a second later. She's standing near the door, looking emphatic.

“Sorry, Merr,” says Hawke. He looks despondent.

We walk inside two by two. Alistair reaches for my hand between us and something about the way he holds it gives me pause. It feels like something special—like a link we could never break.

Bethany is sitting next to Isabela in our usual booth. She isn’t crying, surprisingly. _I_ would be—I can’t _imagine_ how horrifying it must be to be female… constantly worrying about my body _betraying_ me like this—growing things without my consent.

“Hey, Sweetie,” I say, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. Alistair slides into the booth next to me. “What do you need?”

“I don’t know…” she mumbles.

“I’ve already offered to drive her downtown, but she’s refusing,” says Isabela, rolling her eyes. I’m not sure what she means. I squint.

“Isabela!” snaps Bethany, “I’m just not ready to go that route yet—I haven’t even processed this…”

“What route?” I ask stupidly.

Alistair jabs me in the ribs with an elbow and looks at me pointedly.

_Oh._

“Well, you don’t have to make any decisions right this second, Beth,” I smooth the hair that’s falling onto her back. “You have time.”

She nods despondently. “I just don’t know anyone who has done this… had a baby alone…”

We all nod.

“—Fuck,” she interrupts herself, “I don’t even know _anyone_ who has a baby—period.”

I quickly scan our group—we seem to be trapped in some kind of permanent childhood. We’re millennials to a T—no kids, no ties, barely in relationships. _Except_ …

I grab Alistair’s hand again. It’s just sitting on his knee, but it feels like a reminder that we _are_ growing up, regardless of how young I feel.

Suddenly, he speaks. “Bethany… if you need some help making decisions or just getting information… I know someone you can call…” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a business card. “She’s a really great psychologist… she acts as an advocate for women…”

Bethany smiles at him and I think she might be on the verge of tears. Maybe she just needed to feel _safe enough_ to cry.

 

* * *

 

Later that night, I still haven’t really recovered. I am really taking on Bethany’s stress like it has something to do with me, which is stupid, but is happening nevertheless. In bed, Alistair wraps himself into my chest.

“Do you think she’s going to be okay?” I ask.

“Hmm?” He picks up his head. “Bethany?”

I nod.

“Yeah… of course,” he smiles. “No matter what she decides… she has an amazing support system… just look at how many people she had on her side today.”

“Yeah… You’re right… everyone will love her no matter what,” I bite my bottom lip. “What do you think that _feels_ like?”

“What do you mean?”

“To suddenly discover you might be pregnant… do you think it’s terrifying?” I ask.

“Oh…” He drops his cheek onto the skin of my chest. “I think so…”

He seems like he’s going to say more, but he doesn’t.

“What?”

“Oh…” He props himself up again. “It’s just—I had a girlfriend in college who got pregnant…”

My eyes widened reflexively.

“When she told me, I was completely freaked out…” he admits. “But mostly… I just felt disconnected. I can imagine how much _worse_ it must have been for her.”

“So what did she do?” I ask.

“She had an abortion—I went with her…” he looks up into the corner of the room, remembering, “the clinic was such a sad place—people crying in the waiting room… but _we_ weren’t sad… this was the thing that was going to make our lives possible—she went on to become an author, actually. She's really successful…”

“I didn’t know you dated anyone seriously in college,” I blurt. It’s a really stupid thing to say after the gravity of that story, but I’m tired and I’ve lost my filter.

He laughs, “I _did_ … are you jealous?”

“Yes… but I’m covetous of you in general…” I roll to face him and kiss the skin near his clavicle.

He lets his lips gently open and close against my forehead. It’s _like_ a kiss, but less defined.

“Love you,” I mumble.

“I love you too,” he whispers. “I can’t wait for everyone on the camping trip to meet you…”

I look up at him, “why?”

“Because you’re so great.”

He falls asleep not long after that, but I’m awake for another hour, trying to process everything that happened today. Most notably—he loves me? He wants his friends to meet me? I don’t know why it seems so impossible, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m undeserving. It’s doubly strange, considering the shit he’s put me through in the last year. But I have a feeling that things are changing—finally. Today was a big step.

* * *

 


	7. Tuesday, 2/7: Coming Clean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders wakes up Alistair to tell him a secret at 5am. It goes well, but he manages to stick his foot in his mouth eventually anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated M: very minor sexuality, language

* * *

**February 7 th**

 

“Love?” I shake Alistair awake, “I need to tell you something.”

He blinks a few times, “What time is it?”

“I don’t know… like five maybe?” I shift so I’m looking into his eyes. “I went to medical school.”

He squints, “what?”

“I _went_ … I didn’t graduate…” I clarify. “I always thought I wanted to be a doctor… but once I actually got there, I fell apart—I couldn’t hack it.”

He’s looking more awake now. He reaches out to put his hand on my cheek. “Where did you go?”

“B.U.” I answer.

His eyes widen, “ _I_ went there too—what year did you start?”

He’s taking this to a place I wasn’t intending for it to go. I wanted to tell him a _secret_ and finally come clean about how inept I am, but he’s sidestepping me.

“2007… but that’s neither here nor there…”

“—you were only one year ahead of me,” he interrupts.

“Oh…” he’s thrown me off now—my self-deprecating train of thought has been derailed. “I was?”

“Yeah…” he smiles and rubs his thumb in a circle at the corner of my jaw. “We could have met…”

I swallow. “Anyway… I didn’t tell you before because I was embarrassed… and I think half the reason I’ve been so fucked up about this _thing_ —with you and Cullen and Dorian and all the other people you know—is that I feel like I’m _less_ than they are.”

His eyes narrow. “You never have to feel like that.”

“I know that… logically…” I roll my eyes.

“Listen,” he scoots closer to me—I can feel his breath on my neck. “Cullen is actually an idiot… the fact that he has a terminal degree doesn’t mean he’s actually intelligent—it just means he’s good at tests and not sleeping.”

I laugh, despite myself. “I know that… I guess I’ve just been thinking… maybe I’d like to go back… pick up where I left off…”

He perks up, “you could absolutely do that. Lots of people do. And oh my god—when you’re done, you could be in my residency cohort!” He looks so excited. “I guess… actually… that would be sort of a conflict of interest… but I could recommend some other really great ones,” he’s babbling.

I smile sadly, “but what if I wash out again? I don’t know if I could take that.”

“You won’t know unless you _try_ …” he smiles.

“Have you always been like this? _Ridiculously_ hopeful?” I smirk.

“Pretty much…” he kisses me. “But I’m even _more_ like it with you—I think you’re the best person I know…”

“Are you trying to get me to suck your dick?” I joke. “Because it's _working_ …” I scoot down beneath the covers and suck him into my mouth.

He's not particularly hard yet, but it doesn't take long before he's thrusting into my mouth gently.

“Andy… do you have to work today?” he asks suddenly.

“Yeah… at noon,” I answer. My voice is wet-sounding and muffled.

“Then why are we _rushing_ this?” he asks.

“I'm—I'm not rushing,” I argue. I emerge from under the blankets to see him pouting.

“Let me show you how much I _care_ about you,” he insists, pushing me onto my back.

 

* * *

 

We spend the next hour making love in slow and _unimaginably_ nice ways. When we're done, I find myself staring at the ceiling, panting.

“Al…” I swallow, “you're amazing… and your cum tastes like dessert.”

He laughs so hard he snorts.

“Please give me _more_.” I roll into his side and run my hand over his too-sensitive cock.

He bristles away from me, but he's smiling.

“I've got to get going,” I manage to sit up, but he pulls me back.

“About what you said earlier…” he looks me square in the eye. “If you really want to go back to medical school… I think that's a _great_ idea… I think you'd be a fantastic doctor.”

I blush. “What makes you say that?”

He raises his eyebrows, suddenly very serious, “I see new would-be physicians every term… and they’re _all_ smart—that goes without saying—but very few have _heart,”_ he pauses, “...and that’s what you have in spades.”

My whole chest feels warm.

“... _and_ if you needed help studying, I'm a good resource,” he smirks.

“Thank you…” I kiss him gently, “but I'm actually incredibly happy with my job and my life…”

“Okay…”

“I think I just felt weird before because I hadn't dealt with my perceived inadequacy out loud…” I explain. “But now that I've told you… I actually—I'm _proud_ of what I do.”

“I'm proud of you too—no matter what you decide to do,” says Alistair. “I think you're _amazing_.”

 

* * *

 

I'm still thinking about the way he looked at me all day. It carries me through even the toughest of my clients… and there are a few _very_ tough ones. The toughest type of client for me is the type who doesn’t actually want to work. They’re the type who expect some kind of magical secret when they hire a trainer—as if lots of people have already unlocked it and _that’s_ how they’re so good-looking and healthy… not the hours/weeks/months/years of work they’ve put in.

It’s a parallel for the way I felt when I left school, actually. I felt like other people had some sort of formula that let them do well and I didn’t find it in time. It took me years to come to terms with the fact that I didn’t put in the effort. I expected to glide through as easily as I had in undergrad. When that didn’t happen, I started to unravel. Now, 11 years later, I’m finally at the point where I can see my hand in all of it. It doesn’t feel _good_ , per se, but it feels _real_ —and that’s even more important.

 

* * *

 

I open the door to our apartment to find Alistair sitting at the kitchen counter. He looks perplexed.

“Hi, Love, what’s up?” I ask.

“Nothing much… just catching up on some paperwork… it’s mind numbing…” he smiles, but he looks so _tired_.

I wrap my arms around his shoulders and hug him. From what I can see, the whole screen is filled with numbers—it’s a really complex spreadsheet.

“What is all that?”

He laughs humorlessly, “ _this_ is my budget… well… not _mine_ —the department’s—and it’s complete shit.”

“Eww…” I mumble into his ear.

He laughs and turns his head so we’re nose to nose. “I love you… want to get out of here? I could really use some food… and _lots_ of alcohol…”

“Yeah… okay,” I stand up and look at the clock, “Where do you want to go?”

“Let’s go to the met bar…” he suggests.

“We always go there…”

“I know… it’s _our_ place…” he stands up and grabs his coat.

I lean in to kiss him. “I guess it is…”

 

* * *

 

We slide onto our seats at the bar and order almost instantly. All the bartenders know us vaguely—not by name, but certainly as ‘those guys who come in and are all over each other.’ And it's true—we're really touchy in public. Right now, Alistair has one of his hands on my thigh and it's creeping progressively closer to my crotch.

“Are you trying to get me hard in public again?” I whisper.

“Is it working?” he jokes.

We smile and laugh and talk about our days, until a woman pushing a baby carriage noisily enters the restaurant and knocks into the back of my stool on her way. It isn't her fault—there is no mal-intent… she's very apologetic, actually, and she gets herself seated soon afterward, but it gives me _pause_.

“I think I should go to Hawke’s tonight and see if I can do anything for Bethany…” I muse.

Alistair pouts, “ _all_ night?”

I smirk. “No… I'll come home to you when I can…”

He nods and kisses my cheek.

“I just feel like she's in trouble… and if _she_ doesn't need me, Hawke certainly does—he's a total wreck over this.” I brush a hand through my hair and try not to stress.

“Yeah, I understand that… this is a big deal,” he commiserates.

“Do you want to come with me?”

He looks perplexed.

“You know… to help?” I nudge his shoulder gently.

“I'm not sure I'd be very helpful… but I love that you want me there…” he smiles and kisses me again.

While my eyes are closed, it occurs to me that we're doing it again: being _that couple_ who makes other people feel awkward. The rebel in me _loves_ it.

“I just miss you, Al,” I say suddenly.

He squints at me. “What?”

“I miss you,” I repeat. “Every second we're not together.”

While he blushes at me and squeezes my thigh, I realize it's true. For the first time in ages, I want him around. Not because I'm afraid of what will happen if we're apart, but because my life is better with him.

I lean in closer to his face. “Maybe we should get married,” I say it so flippantly—like it’s the best joke I’ve ever told.

“ _What_?” He backs up, the spell instantly broken. He coughs—ostensibly to clear his throat, but I can tell he's just filling awkward silence.

_God, Anders—are you insane?_

“I'm… sorry,” I start to stand, grabbing my coat and keys. “Nothing—I just got carried away… it's the adversity of this situation getting to me…”

I turn away from him as quickly as I can without getting dizzy. I don't want him to see my face flushing.

“Andy?” He reaches for my shoulder and turns me back gently. “You don't have to run away…”

“I'm not running,” I say indignantly, shaking my shoulder free. “I just want to get to Hawke’s before it gets too late.”

He looks crestfallen, but it's better than the guilty look he'd have if he had to reject me directly. I manage a cursory smile and turn away again. When I'm far enough, I chance a look back. He's slumped against the bar, looking into his drink. He looks upset—like he's mulling something over.

_Probably how to let me down easy. Probably how to break up with me._

_Fuck._

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really appreciate all the love you guys have shown me. If you liked this story, I'd really appreciate a tweet or tumblr post or bookmark so that your friends have a chance to read it too! :) <3
> 
> On that note, one of my big goals is to support other fic writers in whatever way I can. The more we help each other, the better it is for everyone. So let me know how I can help you! :)


	8. Wednesday, 2/8: Camping Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders gets home from visiting with Bethany and Hawke at 2am--just four hours before they have to leave on the camping trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated T: nothing racy, but it's still a story for sort of grown-up people. :)

* * *

**Wednesday, 2am**

 

I slide gently into bed next to Alistair and take extra care not to wake him up. I stayed out significantly later than I wanted to, and I'm not eager to pick up our awkward conversation where we left off. I still can't believe I suggested we get married. That's not even what I was doing, actually. It was totally hypothetical… but I know what it _sounded_ like.

Despite my best efforts, he stirs and looks over at me in the dark.

“Hey… what time is it?” he asks.

“Later than I planned to get home…” I grumble. “Go back to sleep—we have an early morning.”

He shakes his head and winds an arm around my waist. “I missed you.”

He kisses me gently and pushes his tongue between my lips. Despite what happened earlier, the urgency of his mouth makes something pull tight in my guts.

“Al?” I whisper. “Don't we have to get up in like 4 hours?”

“Yes… which seems more like a nap—why don't we just stay up?” He rolls me onto my back and pins me to the mattress. His dick is poking me.

I laugh, “Al, you're crazy.”

“I know… but _you're_ the one who wants to marry me,” he smirks. There is so much gentleness in that smile—like every kind thing he's ever said to me wrapped in a shell of honor and loyalty.

“I didn't mean that,” I blurt.

He stops moving and his face falls. “You didn't?”

“Well—it's not like I'd _never_ mean it…” I stammer, “I just meant it as a theoretical suggestion—not like a _right now_ proposal.”

“I know that,” he softens, “but it made my heart stop…”

The way he's looking at me makes me want to _kiss_ him and _kill_ him. It's simultaneously the sexiest and more horrifying expression I've ever seen him don.

“Well…” I interlace my fingers behind his neck. “Can we just table that discussion for a little while?”

“Only if you promise me it won't be too long,” he smirks.

“Okay, Al…” I crane my neck to kiss him. “Not too long.”

 

* * *

 

**Wednesday, 6am**

 

Wednesday morning arrives with lots of pomp and circumstance. Alistair wakes up before me and has us completely packed up and ready before the sun is fully up. When he wakes me, it's with a variety of kisses and questions.

“Do you think we'll need to bring extra first aid equipment?” he asks.

“Why?”

“I don't know… what if someone gets sick?” He smiles—he can tell he's being silly too.

“Everything's going to be fine,” I assure him, carding my fingers through his hair.

We've had a string of really good days in a row. Since Sunday, I almost feel like we're going to be okay.

“I love you,” he whispers.

“Love you too.”

 

* * *

 

In the car, we go over some essentials.

“Tell me who is going to be there again?” I ask.

“Okay, so there's Icis… she's the very best intern in the bunch,” he explains. “Super intelligent, _really_ on top of her shit. She's bringing her girlfriend, Sera, who I met at the white coat ceremony this year—she's crass and hilarious.”

I laugh. “At least we're not the only gays in the bunch.”

He smiles. As much as we all want to believe that the world is a kind place where our intimate relationships don't matter, it isn't true.

“Then there's Cole… he's definitely a little weird…” Alistair makes a face, “but he's perceptive—I'll give him that.”

I laugh.

“And then Krem is the only other student—he's pretty great too… on the faculty side, Dorian will be there; so will my friend, Leliana, whom you met at that Christmas thing…”

I look at him blankly.

“The one with the red bob?” he reminds me.

“Oh yeah… okay.”

“And then… Cullen's coming, I think…” he adds, like it's an afterthought… although I'm not dumb enough to _believe_ that. He purposely left it for the end and said it quickly so it wouldn't stick out.

“Why?” I ask.

“Dorian invited him… they've been friends as long as we have…” he explains. “Cullen's new here and he's just trying to get to know everyone…”

I growl.

“Just be friendly—you'll kill him with kindness,” suggests Alistair.

I'm pretty quiet for the rest of the ride—silently seething—but I'm still warmed by our conversation last night. He wants to _marry_ me—someday.

 

* * *

 

“We're here,” whispers Alistair sometime later. He shakes my shoulder slightly and smiles down at me.

“I must have nodded off…” I rub my eyes and stretch my arms over my head. One elbow bumps the window noisily.

“Yeah… everyone else is already here, I think…” he waves to a variety of people outside the car and disengages the engine.

“Are you going to be okay?” he asks me seriously. “I love you… I don't want this to be the worst 48 hours of your life.” His tone is pleading.

“I'm going to be fine,” I smile jovially and look around, “you're going to sleep with me, right?”

He smirks, “We didn't buy that double sleeping bag for nothing.”

“Hi!” Dorian is the first to greet me. He claps me on the back and breathes in audibly. “This air is so clear today! Cold as shit, but still.”

“Hey, Dorian,” says Alistair. He's unpacking our tent and backpacks from the trunk.

A young blonde woman sidles up next to him. She's wearing a completely white and off-white ensemble, which contrasts starkly with her dark eyes and skin.

“Who's your date, Doc?” she smiles at me inquisitively.

“I'm Anders,” I wave to her over the top of the car and smile.

“Icis,” she nods, “nice to meet you…”

She's quite striking. She looks like a _leader_. I can tell just from her first few sentences that everyone else does what she says, even though she might be the youngest one here. Another blonde—less put-together-looking—pops up next to her a second later. She drops a mittened hand around Icis’ shoulder and laughs. “Do you think we'll need both the electric blankets?”

Icis stiffens slightly. “Sera… you remember Dr. Theirin, right?” she gestures to Alistair. Her mouth seems like a vice—she wants to make a good _impression_ , I think.

“Yeah,” Sera smiles lopsidedly. “Nice to see you again.”

“This is his partner,” she looks at me questioningly—the title was a snap decision, it seems, “Anders.”

“I'm just his boyfriend,” I blurt.

Alistair, who has rounded the car to stand next to me, looks a little hurt.

I'm introduced to the others in a cursory manner, and before I know it we're packing up to start our climb.

“We've got to make it to the summit before dusk so that we can get our tents set up and a fire going… on the way there we're going to play a game,” Alistair says to the interns. “Differential diagnosis roulette…”

They groan in unison. Krem swears under his breath.

“Hey, Al,” says someone over my shoulder.

I turn to look at the new voice and realize it's Cullen. He's right behind me. In the flurry of activity, I had almost forgotten he was coming.

“Hi,” says Alistair stiffly.

I debate about whether or not to wait for him to introduce me. He seems to have forgotten how introductions work.

I extend my hand. “Hi, I'm Anders.”

Cullen takes it and looks at Alistair warily. “Cullen—nice to meet you.”

“Hey, Dr. Rutherford!” calls Icis, from somewhere.

Cullen waves to her.

“You know she's considering a psychiatry residency?” he asks Alistair.

Alistair huffs. “She'd be _wasted_ …”

They both laugh, basically ignoring my existence.

“You seem to be packed a little light,” notes Alistair.

He's right—Cullen has almost nothing with him.

“I just figured I'd curl up with you if I got too cold,” jokes Cullen.

For a second, I'm _sure_ I misheard. He can't _possibly_ think that's an appropriate joke.

Alistair doesn't seem scandalized, though, he hits Cullen's shoulder and smirks, “I think you're going to have to bang down Dorian's tent door tonight, buddy.” He reaches around and pulls me toward him by the waist.

Cullen swallows visibly.

“Anders and I will be rather engaged, I think,” Alistair kisses the side of my head, even though I’m straining to get out of his grasp.

Cullen rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah… I'm going to check in with Dor…” he takes off toward the front of the group.

“So… what the hell was that?” I ask.

“What?”

“That weird joke? And then the kissing thing…”

“I just love you…” he whispers into my ear. “Come on… let's go.”

It sure doesn’t _feel_ like he loves me, though. It feels like he’s using me to make his non-ex/ex jealous.

 

* * *

 

The trek up the mountain is pretty nice, actually. The sun is shining, so even though it's bitterly cold, we're not freezing to death. For the majority, Alistair is quizzing his students. He was right about Icis. She knows the answer to _every_ question. The most impressive thing, though, is that Alistair has enough of a working knowledge of all of this to invent astute and challenging questions on the fly. I've never been so turned on. Intellectualism is my kink.

By nightfall, we've made it to the campsite. It's getting colder by the second, so I'm glad when Cullen lights a fire. So far, I haven't had to deal with him very much. _Thank god._

“All right, everyone get your tents set and then let's do some bonding,” says Dorian.

Alistair smiles and produces two huge bottles of scotch from his backpack. “...and drinking.”

Everyone rolls their eyes at him.

“It's for science…” he adds.

 

* * *

 

“I can't wait to get into bed with you,” he whispers inside our tent. I managed to get the thing sorted in record time.

“Oh yeah?”

He sits with me on the sleeping bag and kisses me.

“Yeah, you've been amazing today,” he adds.

I'm not sure what he means. I've felt like a teenage ball of rage all day.

“Yeah… I know this could have been weird… can I please at least give you a conciliatory blow job before we go back out there?” He smirks.

“Not right now… I think they'd miss you… but tonight, when everyone is drunk, I'm totally down.”

 

* * *

 

 


	9. Thursday, 2/9: Realization

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion of the Camping Trip is not as smooth as the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated E: sex, language.

* * *

**Thursday – 1am**

“I love you,” he’s mumbling.

 I have never seen Alistair so drunk. He stumbled and weaved to get into the tent and now he’s grabbing at me like an uncoordinated mess.

“I love you too,” I caution, “maybe you should lie down…”

“Only if you’re going to bang me,” he laughs. He’s talking way too loud—everyone in the camp is going to hear.

 “Love…” I wrestle him into our sleeping bag and zip the thing around us. “Maybe you should get some sleep…”

“No,” he argues, pulling his pants down to his knees inside the sleeping bag.

“Why not?” I ask.

“Because tomorrow… I’m going to be unbelievably hung over… and I’d rather enjoy myself now if that’s the inevitable outcome,” he laughs again.

I can’t really argue—his logic is still sort of sound—so I lie down across from him and fight with the fabric of my pants.

“Please have sex with me…” he begs.

“Alistair—you’re drunk,” I admonish.

“So?”

 “So I’m not sure you are actually _capable_ of having sex…” I explain.

He smirks and fumbles to unzip my fly. Eventually, he gives up when he can’t find the hole in my boxer briefs that will release my dick from its cloth prison.

 “I just want you so much, Sweetie…” he moans against my lips. “But I’m useless… you’re totally right.”

I smile and kiss him. He’s soft and gentle and completely harmless like this. I can barely remember what he’s usually like—this version of him is so strangely compelling.

 “Come here,” I nudge and push and undress until our cocks touch—smooth and hard in my hand between us. “Does that feel good?”

He nods. “Mmm-hmm…”

 “So let’s just do this… it’s easy,” I smirk.

He kisses me wantonly as I thrust against him in my hands. He’s so sloppy. It’s sort of sad—and endearing.

Eventually, when he’s panting, I’m about to come. I’m not sure if he will—he’s had a _lot_ to drink.

 “Love…” I soothe, “I’m gonna…”

He nods and licks my chin. It’s half a kiss, anyway. “Me too.”

I raise an eyebrow, “ _really_?”

He nods and smiles. “Yeah… I don’t let anything separate me from my orgasms…”

It’s strange, but we’re still laughing even as ejaculate coats my fist. I’m not even sure if it’s his or mine—it hardly seems to matter. _I love him_.

 

* * *

 

**Thursday 5:30am**

We wake up to the sound of yelling. Although we're sort of dressed, Alistair is curled into my chest as tight as possible. We both blink a few times, trying to figure out what's going on. He clutches his head. I’m sure the sound and light are making him want to die. Even _I’m_ hung over. I can only _imagine_ how horrible he feels.

“Fuck you, _asshole_!” yells someone. I think it's Sera. She's _pissed_ about something.

“What's going on?” I mouth to Alistair.

He shrugs and pulls his coat on.

I crawl out of the tent behind him—the heat we created overnight immediately dissipates and we're left shivering.

“What happened?” asks Alistair. His voice is sort of raspy.

“This fucking head shrinker has convinced Icis she's better off without me!” shouts Sera.

Icis is bewildered-looking, but no less self-possessed than before. If anything, she looks _annoyed_.

Cullen walks over next to Alistair and leans in. “We got into a very long _theoretical_ conversation about Icis’ future last night…”

Alistair rolls his eyes. “The point of this trip was to get _closer,_ not become enemies.” He sighs, “Everyone just calm down.”

“I'm getting the hell out of here,” announces Sera.

Icis looks at her disparagingly, but doesn't try to follow her. “Where are you _going_?”

“I’m getting the hell away from _you_!” Sera shouts.

Icis looks at Alistair apologetically. “I’m sorry about this,” she whispers. She looks _incredibly_ embarrassed.

Sera says something I can't understand, but it hardly matters. I'm lost in a series of memories—chasing Alistair down a snowy street over a year ago. _Fighting_. Eventually pledging to put each other first. Discovering that was all a _fucking_ lie. All of that is bookended by visions of every terribly embarrassing facet of _my own_ medical education. I could cry. I turn on my heel and go back inside my tent, zipping the flap behind me. I grab my phone and text the group.

 **Anders** : well, this has not turned out as I hoped…

 **Hawke** : what happened?

 **Anders** : well, Cullen is an asshole.

 **Fenris** : what?

 **Isabela** : is that news?

 **Merrill** : …Should I call Alistair for you? I’ll give him a piece of my mind.

I laugh, despite myself. For Merrill, that’s _really_ angry.

 **Hawke** : what are you going to do?

 **Anders** : I don't know. I just want to get home and sort this out.

 **Fenris** : anything we can do?

 **Anders** : I don't think so… thanks…

 

Alistair opens the tent behind me. “Sorry about that.” He crawls in and pulls me down next to him so we're lying face to face.

“What happened?”

“I think Icis is realizing that her life is about to change—as she nears graduation—and she doesn't know what that might mean for her and Sera… and Cullen _loves_ chaos… so he probably nudged her toward breaking up,” laughs Alistair humorlessly.

“Why would he do that?” I ask. It's actually rhetorical. I _imagine_ that he just wants to fuck up everyone's relationships, although I don’t really _know_ him at all.

“I don't know… that's just what he's like,” Alistair shrugs and leans in to kiss me.

I let him, but I don't really reciprocate. I'm decidedly _angry_.

“Why does everyone let him get away with that?” I ask.

“What?”

“...with being an asshole? Everyone just acts like it's his _right_ to ruin everything?” I grouse.

“Well…” Alistair is trying to calm me down. His tone smacks of reason, “he's just always been like that… he's an _archetype_ —the _‘antihero’_ or the ‘ _kind devil_ ’ or whatever.”

I scoff, “So he's the type of asshole who always gets the girl—” I cut myself off to look at Alistair pointedly, “...or _boy_ in this case.”

“That's not fair,” he says.

I don't say anything else, but I sit up and start to dress for the day. I'm absorbed in tying my hiking boots before I realize he's just staring at me.

“When are you going to _forgive_ me?” he asks.

I don't look up.

“Because I don't know how much more I can apologize. It's starting to feel like penance… every time I say I'm sorry it means less,” he adds.

“I don't know, Al,” I yell, “until I think you actually _mean_ it.”

My voice is alarmingly loud in the stillness of the woods. I bet everyone in the whole camp heard me.

“Wow…” he pushes a hand through his hair and laughs. “I guess that's it then…”

 

* * *

 

We spend the rest of the day pretending to be okay. When we finally reach our cars at the base of the mountain we wish everyone goodbye and head home. It's almost 10pm when we pull into our garage and I just want to sleep.

“I'm going to stay in the guest room,” announces Alistair.

I huff, “you don't have to do that…”

“I don't feel good about sleeping next to you,” he says.

 

* * *

 


	10. Friday, February 10th: Valentine's Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are still weird at home for Anders. He goes to Hawke's and remembers a Valentine's Day of the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated T: this is mostly humor

* * *

**Friday, February 10th**

 

When I wake up the next morning the house is silent. Pounce is sleeping on Alistair's pillow next to my head. I only have to work a half day today, so I'm going to need a distraction if I'm going to get through this. I call Hawke.

“Hey?” he answers.

“Hi… wanna do something today?” I ask.

“Yeah, let’s meet at my place, okay?”

I nod agreement even though he can’t see me and grunt. He knows what I mean.

 

Downstairs, I catch Alistair trying to sneak out. He’s not very good at sneaking.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hello,” I throw a kcup into the coffee maker and wait. I don’t really have anything to say to him.

“Are you going to be home when I get here?” he asks.

“I don’t know—I’m going to Hawke’s later,” I answer, without looking up.

“Okay… well, I love you—and I’d like to talk about this…” he puts a hand on my back and leans into my field of vision.

I shake him off, “We’ll see what happens when I get home, okay?”

He looks dejected. “Okay…”

It occurs to me that I’m actually sort of pissed at him. It’s insane because the only thing he’s done is point out what I have been _doing_ all these months—holding my forgiveness ransom. _God forbid_ I should actually be in touch with my feelings.

He mechanically sifts through our mail. Right on top there is a glossy advertisement for a Valentine’s wine dinner.

“Did you remember that there’s a holiday next week?” he asks. “Well… _sort of_ a holiday, I guess…”

I shrug. “I didn’t _forget_.”

He scowls at me. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” I lie. I’m being an asshole—I just can’t seem to stop.

“Okay… well, I have to go…” he mumbles.

I don’t even look up as he leaves.

 

* * *

 

At about 5:30 that evening, I roll up to Hawke’s place. He happens to be outside, salting the walk, when I arrive.

“Hey, Buddy,” he says. “What’s up?”

I smile and hug him—it feels familiar. “Nothing—just needed to get out of the house after the camping fiasco.” It’s a dumb thing to say, but I want to be pitied, for some reason. As if I’m not even partially _culpable_.

He nods understandingly. “I’m about to put together Merrill’s valentine’s day surprise…” he grins devilishly, “So if you come inside, you have to promise you won’t tell her what it is!”

I laugh and follow him in, kicking my snow boots off in the hallway.

“So here’s the deal…” he says in the kitchen. “I bought about a thousand roses…” He gestures all around us. The entire place is _filled_ with flowers. They’re so numerous, I almost don’t recognize his kitchen. “I’m going to put them all over the place in bunches of five… and then she’ll have to collect them all on her way upstairs… where…”

He pauses and laughs like a little kid. “…where some _other stuff_ will happen…”

I smirk. “That’s really nice.”

It occurs to me that I have no idea what my valentine’s day is going to look like. I realize now that I have a propensity for things going wrong right before holidays. It’s a little disconcerting. A few years ago, I got myself into one of the most colossally embarrassing situations _ever_ on Valentine’s Day. Her name was Eva.

 

* * *

 

**A Few Years Ago**

“Yeah. I’m just about ready,” I say. I'm cradling the phone between my ear and shoulder and trying to do my hair at the same time. It's a challenge. “Hawke, I've gotta let you go, buddy.”

He says something noncommittal and I hang up.

“Well, Andy, this is your chance to be charming,” I say to my reflection.

Eva is an accountant, which doesn't _sound_ exciting, but the way she talks about numbers gives me pause. She's _very_ enthusiastic. She's also extremely beautiful—jet black hair and a perfect athlete’s frame. I met her in the gym, where she lifts almost as much as I do. After a variety of circuitous conversations, we decided to go out together tonight. It’s more pressure than I usually prefer for _any_ date, let alone a _first_ one, but I’m excited nevertheless.

 

“Hey,” she says.

She is wearing glasses today.

“I didn’t know you wore glasses,” I blurt.

“I have horrible vision,” she shrugs.

“They look great on you,” I smile. It’s true, too. She looks positively scholastic. I imagine she must look like this all the time, pouring over tax codes. I picture her biting the eraser of a No. 2 pencil and squinting thoughtfully. It almost makes me laugh, but I manage to stifle it before things get awkward.

“Shall we?” she asks.

In the spirit of parity, she’s picking me up. The first thing I notice outside my apartment is that she has a _really_ nice car. It’s a black BMW—I’m not sure what model, because I don’t really care about cars, but it’s nice. _That_ I can tell.

Unfortunately, she drives like a maniac. We might as well be drag racing. By the time we arrive at the restaurant, I’m starting to doubt that I’m an atheist—little prayers keep escaping my subconscious.

Dinner passes easily—well enough, in fact, that when she asks me to come back to her place, I say yes. Thankfully, she’s had too much to drink at dinner—just slightly—and she asks me to drive. Her car is _fun_ —I can almost understand why she drives so fast.

At the door, she leans in for the kiss I knew was coming. I’ve been rather charming all evening, if I do say so myself. Her lips are far softer than I was expecting—softer than even seems feasible.

“Can I offer you a drink?” she asks.

“Just one…” I shrug, playing coy.

I expected the inside of her house to be immaculate, but it isn’t. It looks really lived in, actually, which is a welcome surprise. It kind of reminds me of the window display at _Anthropologie_ , but better.

She sits next to me on the couch and hands me a drink. It smells like mint.

“Did you decorate this yourself?” I ask.

She smiles and looks at me. “Yeah; do you like it?”

“It’s beautiful…” I look around to each corner of the room and eventually put a hand on the coffee table in front of us. “I had a boyfriend once who designed furniture—this reminds me of one of his pieces.”

“What?” she stares at me blankly.

“...a boyfriend…” I repeat. “—who designed furniture? In fact—I swear this might actually be one of his pieces…” I run my fingers along the edge of one leg, where I know he used to etch his name. I find the monogram exactly where I expect it. “Oh my god—this _is_ his!”

She looks pale.

“Are you okay?” I ask. In my mind, I’ve already invented an explanation for her sudden mood change. I imagine her freaking out that I’ve dated men or throwing me out of the house, afraid she’s caught ‘the HIV’. What she _actually_ says is far more surprising.

“My _brother_ designed this table…” she blurts.

“What?”

We stare at each other for an uncomfortably long time—pervasive disgust forming in the space between us.

“My brother is Bran—he designs furniture…” she explains. “Are you _that_ Anders?”

_Oh god, she’s heard of me._

“Uh… maybe?” I mumble.

“You dated my _brother_!?” she’s starting to unravel now. Her face turns into a sneer and she’s looking rather green.

“Okay, we just need to calm down,” I stand up and back away from her a few feet.

She nods, but she’s looking at me like I’m some kind of a monster.

“I’m just going to let myself out and we’ll pretend this whole thing never happened,” I assure her.

She nods, but she doesn’t look sure. To be honest, I wasn’t very nice to Bran. I really took him for granted. And while I said _‘dated_ ,’ I really meant ‘ _had sex occasionally_ ’.

“Okay, okay, okay…” she repeats under her breath. She’s looking around the room like it’s a crime scene. “At least nothing happened… right?”

“Right. We’re fine.”

She hands me my coat. “Thanks…” she mumbles.

I nod and head for the door, never looking back.

 

* * *

 

Outside, I try to get my bearings. I’m in a part of the city I don’t really know, but I can’t be far from a subway station. I pull my phone out and start flipping through directions. Figuring out where I’m going proves really difficult. My first call is to Hawke.

“Hi?” he asks.

“Hi…” my voice shakes a little. “I need help. Can you come get me?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Where are you?”

“I don’t really know… let me send you my location…”

 **Anders** : [pin drop]

“I’m in the car already—I’m not far,” says Hawke.

I don’t have to wait long. He pulls up beside me and I jump in.

“So what happened?” he asks.

We’re not looking at each other. The street lamps illuminate his face in stuttering bursts in my periphery.

“I mentioned, in passing, that I used to have a boyfriend who made furniture—” I begin.

“—who made furniture?” asks Hawke.

“Bran. Don’t you remember that?” I ask.

Hawke laughs, “I would hardly call him a boyfriend—you guys just banged a few times a month…”

I smile, despite myself, “...yeah for like a _year_!”

“Okay, okay… so what happened?” he acquiesces.

“Bran is her _brother_ …” I finally look at him. I can feel how red my face is.

Hawke’s mouth drops open. He’s still looking at the road, but he can’t hold it together any better than I can. “Oh—my—god.”

“So she freaked out…” I explain.

“—yeah! Understandably!” Hawke interrupts again.

“I know! And then she started to look like she was going to be physically ill… her skin looked sort of green…” I drop my head into my hands and grind my palms against my eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Andy…” mumbles Hawke. He’s actually laughing, though. He can’t hold it in.

Neither can I. I finally just let myself freak out, “What a stupid waste of a perfectly good Valentine’s Day!” I cackle.

“There’s still time to turn it around…” he smiles lopsidedly, “want to get a drink with me?”

“What about Merrill? Haven’t I interrupted your night enough already?” I shrug.

“I think you need me more than she does,” he laughs, “She’ll understand.”

 

* * *

 

**Presently**

So no matter what happens, I always know I can call Hawke. This wouldn’t make as good of a story, but I _am_ struggling—I need him just as much now as I did that night. I decide to open up to him.

“Hey, Garrett?” I’ve interrupted him. I don’t even know what he was talking about, but he stops abruptly.

“Yeah?”

“I need help,” I say.

His face softens. He sits across from me at the island counter.

“I think I’m fucking everything up… I need to tell you all the details…”

* * *

 


	11. Saturday, 2/11: A Marriage Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders has a realization and a subsequent change of heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated E: sex, language. Also, you may want to have your tissues handy. :/

* * *

**Saturday, 2am**

“Hey.” I crawl into bed next to Alistair and kiss his forehead. He’s elected to sleep in _our_ bed tonight, so that’s something.

He blinks. “Were you at Hawke’s this whole time?”

“Yeah… I was helping him put together a Valentine’s surprise for Merrill,” I laugh, “It was very elaborate.”

Alistair smiles, “He loves that kind of thing, huh?”

I nod and push a piece of hair off Alistair’s forehead.

“I’m sorry about Cullen,” he blurts. “I can completely understand where you’re coming from… he’s an asshole—I’m just used to his particular brand of it…”

I shake my head, “Let’s not talk about this right now…”

He squints—like he doesn’t want to be interrupted—but when I kiss him, he doesn’t push me away.        

           

* * *

 

In the morning, I wake up next to a note:

[Had to work early. See you tonight. Love, Al.]

On my walk to work, I get a flurry of texts.

 **Fenris** : we are going to the hanged man later. Do you and Al want to come?

 **Anders** : let me ask him.

I switch windows and text Alistair.

 **Anders** : want to meet everyone at the hanged man tonight?

 **Alistair** : I'm not sure.

 **Anders** : why?

 **Alistair** : I'm going to be exhausted. This day is trying to kill me. Lol. You go.

 **Anders** : okay. I'll probably be home late.

I sigh and switch back to the group.

 **Anders** : Alistair is busy, but I'll go.

 **Fenris** : okay. See you then.

 

* * *

 

The day passes uneventfully. My clients work hard, I laugh some, and it's soon time to leave. I take the train three stops to the hanged man and find the whole gang already congregated.

“Hey Andy,” says Merrill. Hawke has one of his arms wrapped all the way around her waist. She's leaning into him—as if they were one being instead of two. I remember that feeling.

“Hi guys,” I slide into the booth. “What's up?”

“Well…” Fenris clears his throat, “we're really glad you're here… we were hoping Alistair would be here too… but…” he looks at Isabela sweetly. “We've decided to get married.”

Everyone erupts into laughter and congratulations.

“What made you finally decide to tie the knot?” asks Hawke.

Isabela is _actually blushing_ —I've never seen her cheeks that color.

“We decided it was time to stop running from this,” says Fenris. He looks into Isabela’s eyes. “I’m so _thankful_ for every minute we get to spend together. I _love_ you.”

Merrill is crying and Hawke looks like he isn't far behind.

“Congratulations,” I raise my drink and smile.

Everyone clinks.

I _want_ to be happy for them, but, mysteriously, I'm _not_.

 

* * *

 

At home that night, Alistair is already in bed.

“Al?” I whisper, leaning over him.

He doesn't stir.

I undress silently and crawl between the covers behind him. I wrap my arm around his waist and pull my body flush against his. He gently rolls toward me until we're face to face in the dark.

“Hi,” he mumbles. His eyes don't open. He's so beautiful like this.

“Hi,” I parrot. “I have something to tell you.”

He nuzzles into the crook of my neck and lazily kisses the skin above my clavicle. “Mmm?”

“Fenris and Isabela are getting married,” I say.

“Really?” He backs up so he can see me.

“Yeah, isn't that something?”

“Wow,” he gapes. “I'm really happy for them.”

“Me too,” I lie. “...but this is making me think about things in a whole new way…”

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“Are we going to get married eventually?”

His eyes widen fractionally. “I thought so…”

I knew he was going to say something like that. “To what end?” I ask. I can feel my heart pounding with realization even as the words form in my mouth. “So say we get married—how does that look?”

“What do you mean?” asks Alistair.

“We have a big wedding; all our friends come to see us.” I'm thinking, ‘ _I finally stick it to Cullen once and for all_ ,’ but I don't say that part.

“...we buy a house in the suburbs; get a dog…” I roll to face the ceiling so I can gesture with my hands while I'm talking. “...we spend all this time and energy renovating to cover up the fact that we’re still angry with each other—that we've stopped having sex.”

He tries to interrupt me, but I don't let him.

“Eventually, we have kids, just to fill the void in our house,” I continue, “it works for a while—we love them—but we realize that there's no love left between _us_ …”

“Anders,” Alistair manages to get into my field of vision. “What are you _saying_?”

“I'm saying we don't need to _imagine_ falling out of love because we have already started.”

“I still love you,” says Alistair. He hugs me desperately.

“I don't _trust_ you,” I admit.

He picks his head up. He looks sad and angry in equal measure. “I have apologized to you a _thousand_ times. How much more sorry do I have to _be_ before you believe me??”

“That's exactly my point,” I cup his cheek with my palm. “I can't move past this. I tried… but the second I saw you with Cullen, this was already ruined.”

“I don’t want to just give up,” he says.

“I don’t either—but we can’t go on like this…” I feel my face becoming a mask.

“Andy… I…” he chokes. I think he might be seconds away from crying and I can’t help but wonder if my eyes are already glassy. “Andy, I love you.”

“I love you too…” I admit. It’s the saddest kind of love there is. It’s love tinged with despair. It’s love without plausibility.

He suddenly grabs me and kisses me—harder than he has in ages. His tongue slides against my lips and it’s more like he’s inside me than on top of me. I don’t know how to reject him. He’s too important to me. So I grab onto his waist and knead the skin. I grind my hips against him and kiss every inch of skin I can reach. He’s panting and sweating all over me, rutting against the inside of my thigh.

 “ _Be_ with me,” he croaks.

 I nod without thinking. My hand finds him of its own volition. He’s hard and thick in my palm and I want him like I’ve never wanted anyone— _still_ , despite everything.

 He bites a patch of skin between my neck and shoulder; it has me reeling. I want to _hurt_ , I realize. A dark voice deep inside insists that’s the only way I’ll know if I’m still alive.

 “Alistair?” I manage.

 He pulls back to look at me. I can feel my pulse in my cock between us.

 “Fuck me.” I’m insisting, actually. There’s no hint of a question in my tone.

 He raises an eyebrow—wondering if I’m serious, I assume. All it takes is one nod and he’s reaching for the bedside table drawer. It’s dark so I can’t exactly _see_ what he’s doing, but a slick, wet sound tells me. He pulls my knees into tents on either side of him and reaches under me. To be honest, he’s much better at this than I am. He pushes his fingers into me with the perfect amount of pressure and speed. I’m opening up for him in record time—before I know it, I’m begging him to sink into me.

 “Are you sure?” he asks.

 I nod feverishly.

 He lines himself up and thrusts forward. He’s so slick and hard that he’s half-way into me right away. I wince and sigh—it _burns_.

“Are you okay?”

I nod and exhale—eyes closed, heart thumping in my chest. “Please, Al… fuck me.”

He doesn’t have to be told twice. He draws back and pushes into me again—deeper, with more authority.

I start to lose touch with reality as he gets himself fully seated inside me. When we’re connected and moving in rhythm, it occurs to me that this is the _last_ time we’re going to have sex. This is a last-ditch effort to stay together and I think we both know it. This is the last time I’m going to see him slicked with sweat, panting because of me. This is the last time I’m going to call out his name when I come. This is the last time I’m ever going to be this _connected_ to him.

There are tears forming at the edges of my eyes before he hits a spot so deep inside me that I’m seeing stars.

 “Oh god…” I manage.

He looks like he’s on the edge too. “You’re so fucking tight,” he _almost_ smirks, but there’s sadness in there too. He’s not stupid. I’m sure he knows this relationship is almost over.

I reach down between us and grab my dick. It’s leaking all over my stomach and I spread the excess liquid across the head. I attempt to lose myself in how fucking amazing this feels.

A minute later, we come: me first, then him.

As he softens out of me, he whispers, “I’m going to miss you every day.”

 _Me too, Alistair. Me too._  

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although there are three more days left in the challenge, I consider this the climax plot-wise. The next three days lead us toward the next chapter of [Coffee Shop](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8694850). And although things look really bleak right now, I assure you... this is going to have a really rewarding ending. So stick around, and you'll see. :) 
> 
> Also, come ask me questions or flail or tell me about _your_ work on [tumblr](http://ponticle.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/ponticle)!


	12. Sunday, 2/12: Breaking Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair forms a plan to leave so quickly that Anders almost changes his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated M: language

* * *

**Sunday**

In the morning, we begin the process of separation. It’s not very easy—we’ve managed to glom onto each other in ways I didn’t even realize. The whole process feels like _slowly_ extracting a splinter.

“I’m going to take a job at a satellite campus,” says Alistair.

“Oh?” I look up at him across the counter—we’re making coffee near each other, but haven't  actually been speaking.

“Yes,” he clears his throat, “I’ve been turning it down for a year… but now I think this is the right thing to do… they’ll get me temporary housing until I find a place out there…”

“I see,” I swallow hard. This was _my_ idea, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“They need me as soon as possible,” he continues, “I’m going to move the majority of my stuff this weekend— _tomorrow_ ,” he explains.

_Andraste… this is so fast._

“Is that _okay_?” he asks.

I nod. “Yeah, whatever you need.” I grab my duffel bag and keys. “I’ve got to run—we can talk about the details more tonight.”

* * *

 

Outside, I text the group.

 **Anders** : I have to tell you guys something.

 **Fenris** : what?

 **Anders** : Alistair and I are breaking up.

 **Isabela** : what??

 **Hawke** : oh my god

 **Merrill** : what happened?

I sigh—this is hard to explain.

 **Anders** : nothing _happened_. We just repeated the process of falling in love, but in reverse. We are getting to un-know each other.

 **Fenris** : that sounds like a cop out.

 **Anders** : maybe it is… All I know is, we’re _finished_. He’s moving out this weekend.

 **Isabela** : at least you’re keeping the apartment.

 **Merrill** : Oh my _god_ , Bela…

 **Isabela** : what? Shouldn’t Andy get to live in a nice place?

 **Fenris** : what can we _do_ for you, Anders?

 **Anders** : nothing right now… but I’ll let you know. Love you guys. <3

 **Merrill** : LOVE YOU!

 **Hawke** : Love.

I flip over to Alistair’s permanent text chat.

 **Anders** : Is there anything you need before you go?

It feels like a weird thing to say, but I want to say _something_.

 **Alistair** : I don’t think so… do you want to have dinner together tonight? Figure out the plan?

 **Anders** : okay. Meet me at the met bar.

It feels traditional that I picked it. It was the first place we ever had a drink together. It’s where he first held my hand in public. It’s where we _became_ a couple. Now we’re going to use it to say goodbye.

 

* * *

 

I’m nervous when I arrive at the restaurant. It’s stupid—I go here a lot. Alistair is already sitting at the bar.

“Hey,” he stands when he sees me and kisses me right on the mouth. Under normal circumstances, it actually would have been sort of a _tame_ kiss, but these circumstances are anything but normal.

I smile and shrug awkwardly, “Hey… how are you?”

We sit and order drinks. We talk about our days. It’s _stupid_. It skirts the issues. And even more than that—it hurts viscerally.

"So the movers are coming first thing…” he finally says.

I nod.

“You might want to take Pounce with you when you leave or at least put him in the spare bedroom…” he suggests. “I don’t know if they’ll leave the door open for too long or whatever…”

“Yeah… I’ll take him in his carrier to work with me.”

He nods and smiles at me. It’s horrible, but I feel like kissing him again. I love everything about him, except that we’re _fucking ruined_.

“I guess that’s it, then,” I sigh.

“Yeah…” he sips his drink. “I guess it would be too much to say that I hope we’ll still be friends? Get together sometimes?”

 “Yeah… I think it _would…_ ” I mumble. It’s _way_ too much. If I so much as _see_ him in the future, I’m going to want to fuck him. It’s impossible to be his friend. It’s no more possible now than it was when I stalked him in the coffee shop for _weeks_ before even saying hello.

“But I hope you’re _great_ … I hope everything works out exactly as you want it to,” I grip his hand on the bar and smile. It’s the most I can do without fucking _sobbing_ all over him.

He wipes a hand across his eye, “It can’t… because all I want is _you_.”

 _God, Andy. Hold it together. This is best for both of you_.

 “I’m so sorry, Alistair…” I breathe. “I love you so much and I think you’re wonderful… you deserve someone who can _see_ that without this bullshit in the way.”

He nods miserably.

“So tomorrow… when you’re moving… maybe we could skip saying goodbye… and just know that I’ll be happy for you—whatever happens,” I smile.

He exhales. “Okay, Andy… _okay_ …”

 

* * *

 

Outside the bar, we hold hands. I'm not sure why, but it feels comfortable. I'm wondering if we have one more epic fuck left in us before this is over. I hate to admit it, but I really _hope_ we do.

“So… I'm going to sleep at… a friend’s…” he mumbles.

The way that sentence sounds makes me pissed. “Are you staying with Cullen?”

“Andy… don't do this—not when we're this close to… to—to the _end_.”

I scoff, “That's a yes.”

“Fine,” he drops my hand. “Yes. I’m staying with him… but not like _that_ … it’s just preferable to being _homeless_.”

“You don’t have to stay anywhere… you can sleep at home,” I argue.

“ _Home_?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Yes… it’s still your home for another 24 hours, you know.” The words come out sharper than I intended and I regret it instantly.

He shrugs, “You would want me there?”

“Yeah… I would,” I admit.

“Why?”

“Because I fucking love you…” My voice catches in my throat.

At that, he holds my hand again. “Andy… if I stay with you tonight… we are not going to do anything good to each other… we are going to manage to ruin all this compassion we’ve cultivated,” he gestures to the bar, “what with the tearful goodbyes and the well-wishes.”

I know he’s right. We walk together in silence until we get to our cars in the parking structure.

“All right… I guess this is it,” I say.

“Yeah… Love you, Andy.”

Before I have a chance to say anything, he wraps me in the most passionate kiss I can imagine. It’s made for a movie—his hand cups my jaw and his entire body leans into it. I almost wish I could see it from the outside—it’s picture-perfect.

“Love you too, Al,” I whisper.

And that’s it. He leaves.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not, this is actually my favorite chapter of the challenge. The emotions feel really authentic to me... even though they're not nice ones. Two more days left. Thank you so all your awesome comments and kudos. :)


	13. Monday, 2/13: Moving Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders is so caught up in Alistair moving out that he forgets about something important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated M: mature concepts, language

* * *

**Monday, February 13th**

 

On Monday morning, the movers arrive. I leave the house as soon as they come—I don't want to see them take away Alistair’s things one by one. When I get home that afternoon, they're done. The whole apartment looks bare—most of the things we kept in our cohabitation were his. There is a note on the kitchen counter.

[Dear Anders, I understand why you didn’t want to stick around for the moving process, but I wish I’d had a chance to say goodbye properly. For what it’s worth, I still love you, although I know you’re right about us—we never had a chance. When I think about my life, there aren’t a lot of things I regret, but I mourn that day with Cullen the _most_. If there was any way I could take it back, I would. I just wanted you to know that. If you ever want to get in touch, you know how to reach me. I’m going to give you some space, though… so I won’t contact you. Have a wonderful life—meet someone great. You _deserve_ to be happy. Love, Alistair.]

Before I even get to the end, I’m weeping. It takes all the willpower I have to _not_ call him right then and demand he come back. My sobbing sounds extra-loud in the nearly-empty apartment. Pounce comes up to me and bunts my arm, but I can barely sustain petting him. I feel like my life is over.

I start typing a message to Alistair. It begins, ‘I can’t do this. Please come—’ but I don’t let myself continue. I erase it and block his number.

 

* * *

 

 **Anders** : guys… help…

 **Isabela** : I’m going to get to you as soon as I can… I’m downtown right now, though.

 **Anders** : what are you doing?

 **Hawke** : we’re at a clinic with my sister…

 _Oh shit._ In my grief I’d forgotten that Bethany was in trouble—that she was having a string of days _much_ worse than mine.

 **Anders** : I’m an asshole. Where are you? I’ll come meet you.

 **Merrill** : We’re at the PP on Main Street—next to the old firehouse.

 **Anders** : I’ll be there soon.

 

* * *

 

I elect to use my car so I’m there faster. I feel like I’m racing against some kind of internal clock—if I don’t make it there in time, then I really _am_ a selfish idiot. I need to prove myself wrong. Unfortunately, my plan is foiled when I get stuck in the world’s worst construction traffic. It takes me almost an hour to traverse the 13 miles to the clinic.

When I finally make it, breathless and frantic, Bethany isn’t anywhere.

“Hey,” says Hawke. He hugs me—just like he always does. “Thanks for coming.”

“Where is she?” I ask.

“They took her back about ten minutes ago,” says Isabela. “Merrill went with her.”

I scan the room and realize that she isn’t there. Suspiciously, neither is Sebastian.

“Where’s that virile dick who got us into this mess?” I ask. It’s acerbic, but I’m on the verge of hitting someone, so it feels _right_ to be pissed at him.

Fenris looks at me reproachfully. “Bethy didn’t want to involve him.”

I nod and sit down.

“So,” Isabela throws an arm around my shoulder, “what happened today?”

I run a hand through my hair, “I don’t know.”

Everyone looks at me blankly.

“I wasn’t there—I couldn’t watch it happen…” I admit. “He left me a note, though…” I produce the crumpled ball of tear-stained paper from my pocket and let them read it. Their eyes scan from left to right rapidly, and Hawke looks like he’s on the verge of tears by the end.

“Wow,” says Isabela.

“I think he really loved you,” says Hawke. The past-tense hurts, but he’s right. It’s _over_.

I nod. “Yeah… but we had to do this… I didn’t see any other way for us.”

We all sit in silence for a while. I keep looking at the waiting room clock. Hawke looks sort of grey—this is his _baby_ sister, after all.

“Hey, where’s Carver?” I ask.

“He’s on Leandra duty,” says Hawke ruefully.

“What?” I squint at him.

Fenris explains, “He’s keeping her _busy_ all afternoon so she doesn’t notice that Bethany’s absence.”

“Oh…”

“Yeah… he has the hardest job of any of us,” says Isabela. “He was a really good sport about it too…”

“—for the first time ever,” laughs Hawke.

We all smile, but it’s short-lived. Merrill pushes the door open a second later and leads Bethany out into the waiting room. She looks bewildered. Her eyes are glassy, but she manages to smile when we circle around her.

“How are you?” I ask.

She tips her head noncommittally, “I’m standing.”

Merrill guides her gently toward the door and we all spill out into the parking lot. Once we’ve all kissed and hugged and given her every assurance about her life after this, Isabela, Fenris, and I are left standing near my car.

“Do you guys need a ride home?” I ask.

“Yeah… if you’re offering,” says Fenris.

Isabela smirks, “We could also stop at a liquor store and all go to your house.”

 

* * *

 

Two hours later, we’re a silly mess on my living room floor—half a bottle of scotch already gone.

“I’m really glad you still have a guest bed, Andy,” says Isabela. “Because I would not make it home in this condition,” she laughs.

It’s one of the few pieces of furniture I still have—I don’t have a couch anymore, for example. “I’m going to have to buy a bunch of stuff…”

“I’m feeling an Ikea trip coming on,” says Fenris. He’s laughing. It’s rare to see him so jovial. His cheeks are sort of pink from the alcohol. “I’ll go with you, if you want.”

“Thanks, buddy… I _do_ need help picking things…” Fenris has fantastic taste, actually. Besides, I don’t want to be alone... _ever_ again… As soon as I have to go to bed, I’m sure all of this will hurt more: Alistair’s space saved, but permanently empty.

“Are you _sure_ about this?” asks Isabela suddenly. She’s squinting at me with an intensity I barely feel ready for.

“What do you mean?”

She shrugs and exchanges a look with Fenris, “we just thought…” she interrupts herself, “ _I_ think that you love him.”

“I do,” I respond flatly, “That isn’t the issue…”

“Then what is?” asks Fenris. Up until now, he’s been really quiet on this topic, but I knew he was wondering— _I_ would be.

“I can’t forgive him… for the Cullen thing,” I sigh.

Fenris squints at me and leans forward, elbows on his knees in front of him. “But you’ve been living together for half a year… you didn’t manage to work it out in that time?”

I shake my head. “I think we could have—if I’d noticed it earlier… but I wasn’t ready… I don’t think I was _ever_ ready for him—even before all this happened.”

Isabela nods, but Fenris still looks perplexed, so I decide to explain it.

“Ever since I dropped out of med school… I haven’t been the same,” I begin. “I’ve been perpetually disappointed in myself…”

I take a deep breath, trying to find the right words. It’s complicated.

“...I was able to ignore it for a long time—pretend I was happy and fulfilled. Sometimes I _was_ —but as soon as Alistair and I got together, I felt sort of inferior. And I didn’t think that it would make a difference, because I’m really good at what I do—and I’m becoming more accomplished all the time—but it did.”

Fenris is starting to look like he understands.

“So when Alistair cheated on me… that was the last straw,” I conclude. “It proved what I already believed—that I’m not good enough for him… that I never was.”

We all stare at each other—realization dawning.

“I think I need a therapist,” I announce.

We all laugh, but I’m serious and they _definitely_ know it.

“That’s a tomorrow problem,” says Isabela. “Tonight, we’re going to get drunk enough that you forget your own name.”

* * *

 


	14. Tuesday, 2/14: Letters and Emails

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders remembers the day he dropped out of school. Hawke calls to check on him.
> 
> \------------
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who read this challenge! Look out for an update to [Coffee Shop](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8694850) this _Thursday_! :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated T: language

* * *

**Tuesday, 2/14**

 

~~I miss you already. Please come back.~~

_Fuck, Anders. Stop it._

~~I was wrong. This is stupid. We’re better together. I _need_ you.~~

_No. Stay strong._

~~You’re a wonderful person. I just know you’re going to be fine. You have the brightest future ahead of you… and I’m so _proud_ to have known you.~~

_Dear God, Anders._

~~Dear Self, you’re not doing well today. But someday, this is all going to feel okay. You’ll look back on this as a period of self-discovery...~~

_Shit. Fuck._

 

I crumple the paper up and throw it into the trash. I need to get a grip. I’m considering going for a run, but we just got a foot of snow last night, so I feel thwarted.

I open my laptop and scroll through a few emails. There's the usual stuff… updates from work, some ads… and then there's something else: an errant invitation to an alumni event at BU medical school. Because I should have graduated already, I sometimes get an email reminder of my failure.

“Please join us for an alumni event following our White Coat ceremony,” it says.

I remember preparing for that. It happens at the end of first year. I almost made it all the way there. I'd filled out a form with the correct spelling of my name and everything. But a couple weeks beforehand I came to terms with the fact that I was falling behind in my classes without hope of catching up. I left school and never looked back.

 

* * *

 

**11 years ago**

“Hey,” I breathe into the phone. “Hawke, are you alone?”

“Yeah…” he mumbles “what's up?”

I can't believe I have to tell him this. At this point, I'm still kind of crazy about him. We hooked up a couple times and I think he might be getting together with Merrill, but I still _think_ about him a lot. The last thing I want to do is disappoint him.

“Listen… I have to tell you something,” I hedge.

“Yeah?”

“I'm leaving school,” I blurt.

The line goes silent. If it weren't for intermittent static, I would think he hung up.

“Did you hear me?” I ask.

“Yeah, Andy…” he whispers. “I heard you.”

“So say something,” I demand. I'm on the verge of tears and I want him to help me. I'm not sure _how_ , but I just _know_ he's the one to get me out of this mess.

“Well, I guess it's your decision,” he says.

“What the fuck does that mean?” I choke back an angry sob.

“Andy…” he clicks his tongue.

“I shouldn't have called.” I hang up as rashly as I decided to call him in the first place.

I'm sitting in the middle of the Boston Commons. It's spring in New England. All the flowers are beginning to bloom. Everything around me is coming to life while my last ember of self-confidence dies. Med school beat me. I just couldn't hack it. And now it's time to figure out who I _am_ without this.

Hawke calls me back, but I don't answer.

He texts me a minute later.

 **Hawke** : I'm sorry… you just caught me by surprise.

I ignore it and start down the nearest walking path. There’s something to be said for a clean slate. Maybe I should leave school and my friends at the same time. God knows we infantilize each other. Maybe I should get a normal job, make new friends, get married, have kids. None of that was in my plan, but neither was washing out. Granted, they haven’t _asked_ me to leave… but I’m too far behind to catch up and I don’t want to ‘ _withdraw-failing_ ’ so I’ll go to the registrar today and unenroll. I’m going to be in debt up to my eyeballs. I need a _job_...

 **Hawke** : Buddy, please pick up the phone.

He’s called an additional two times. On the third attempt, I pick it up.

“Hawke… don’t call me ‘ _Buddy_ ’,” I snarl.

“What?”

“It’s like you’re throwing the fact that I’m crazy about you back in my face with that fucking nickname,” I shout. “If you don’t want to fuck me, that’s fine… but don’t pretend like we’re best friends.”

He’s silent.

“...yeah, that’s what I thought. I’m hanging up now,” I finish.

He mumbles something that sounds like protest, but I push ‘end’ before he has a real chance. I’m not even really angry at him, but he’s a convenient receptacle for all the feelings I have right now. Who is more hateable than the guy who _doesn’t_ want me?

When I look up, I realize I’ve walked further than I thought. I’m on the far edge of the park, looking up at a huge gym. The glass windows reveal tons of sweating, gorgeous people. In undergrad, my major was kinesiology. My adviser told me it was one of my  best options for pre-med other than Chemistry, which I didn’t really like.

I step inside and pick up a pamphlet or two.

The scary-attractive receptionist greets me.

“Hi,” I clear my throat, “Are you hiring right now?” I ask.

 

* * *

 

The phone next to me on the desk buzzes noisily and I’m back in the present. It’s funny to think about how I got into my current career—complete accident 11 years ago. But it hasn’t been bad at all.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” says Hawke.

“Hey, Buddy…” _I_ call him that now all the time. “I’m so glad we’re still friends,” I blurt.

“Yeah, me too,” he’s laughing. “Are you doing okay?”

“Not really…” I admit.

“That's understandable… he was really important to you…”

“Yeah…” I mumble.

We pause, but I’m not afraid he’s going to think I hung up. We’re good at long silences now.

“What would you think if I went back to med school?” I ask suddenly.

“What?”

I laugh, “I know… it's ridiculous. I'm so _old_ …”

“You are _not_ …” he laughs too. “Besides, you'll never be as old as I am…” (He's two months older than I am.) “I think you can do _anything_ you want to, Andy…”

“Thanks…”

“I _mean_ it,” he assures me. “I always thought you gave up too soon, to be honest…”

I sigh.

“So maybe this is your chance.”

“Thanks, Garrett…” I'm grinning ear to ear even though he can't see me.

“Do you want to get together?” he asks.

“Yeah… give me like an hour. I need to do a couple things first.”

“Okay, see you soon.” I can tell he’s smiling by the sound of his voice.

We hang up and I dial another number.

“BU Medical School: Registrar's office, can I help you?”

“Yes, hi… what is your re-matriculation process?” 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's it for the challenge. It's a bit of an unsatisfying ending because we're in the middle of an ongoing story... but I'm publishing the next chapter of Coffee Shop this Thursday and the next challenge begins March 1st, so you won't have to be unsettled for long. :)
> 
> If you liked this story, I'd _really_ like to hear from you... Thank you so much for reading!


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